


Life's Eternal Rhyme

by roggietaylor



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial, Early 70s, Early Queen (Band), Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Roger's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor
Summary: Roger and Freddie's friendship has few boundaries, but as the few that exist become blurred, Roger has to either pull away or lean into it.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 62
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I got two votes for froger and one for dealor and seeing as I have two dealor's I thought I'd write froger! Let me know if and how you like it! This chapter's fairly short so it'll update soon!

**1969 — New Years**

“Plastered or just tipsy?” said Roger, passing his cigarette to Freddie. Freddie took it and didn’t inhale but let out a little cloud of smoke after him which Roger couldn’t help but grin at. The walk to Brian’s flat was short but the air of the night made it miserable.

“Faced,” said Freddie, quickly. “New Years is such a bullshit holiday. I want to be off my tits or what was the fuckin’ point.”

“Brian’s going to want to sing Auld Lang Syne,” said Roger tiredly. Freddie groaned, knowing it was true. “If you and him harmonise that fucking song, as God is my witness, I’ll quit the band.”

“I can’t make any promises. When I’m drunk I’m sure it’ll sound like a swell idea,” laughed Freddie. Roger handed him his cigarette and once again Freddie didn’t inhale. “You know he ought just move in with us.”

“We’ve not got a spare room Fred,” laughed Roger.

“We can share,” offered Freddie.

“You share, I’m not havin’ that virgin stare at the women I bring home,” said Roger, half joking half serious.

“Be nice.” Freddie weakly swatter Roger’s arm as they turned into the little alley for Brian’s building. The party was being held at Brian’s but it certainly wasn’t his party. Freddie organised the guest list himself and let Brian bring the few people he actually wanted along as well. And while he had to listen to Brian complain about being steam rolled they both knew Freddie could throw a better party with better people so Brian didn’t argue when Freddie told him to go in with them on liquor.

“Finally,” sighed Brian when they stepped inside. “It’s been hell, Fred, who the fuck are all these people?”

“Friends,” said Freddie with a grin. “People. People from around—don’t bother with the semantics, just mingle. Not everyone can be a college graduate.”

Brian looked to Roger for help but Freddie had already walked off and Roger, well, Roger didn’t much care.

“Don’t worry, Bri, you don’t own anything worth stealing and you’re single. Get a few drinks in you, get some gash,” said Roger. Without letting Brian respond, he wandered to the kitchen and got his first drink of the night. No clue what it was but it tasted strong and that’s all he needed. He talked to the short girl by the sink, rinsing her cup after someone dropped their cigarette in it.

She talked to him about what trash the music playing was. Roger didn’t recognise but he didn’t find it particularly bad. Either way he agreed with her, anything to keep the conversation going. She told him she was in the arts program with Freddie and showed him the many piercings in her ear as proof.

Roger pretended to be interested in her long monologue about some dead painter. And she pretended to be interested in his rambling about drums and the sort. Neither cared past the end of the night. Roger danced with her and when she excused herself, spotting a friend that walked in, he did the same and caught up with the few people he knew.

Freddie’s friends were all sorts. Strange but interesting, intriguing in a way that Roger could handle in small amounts. Their artsy backgrounds, their wardrobe, their hair. He liked to think himself a real rebel with his own long locks and genderless clothing but he was a regular suit next to Freddie’s crowd.

“Rog,” groaned Brian, appearing next to him and catching Roger’s drunken attention. “I can’t keep up with this circus.”

“You’re worrying too much,” said Roger with a pat to his shoulders. “Honestly, I’ll kick you out the band if you don’t learn to have more fun.”

“I started this band,” said Brian with a relaxed laugh.

“And I’ll end it, now go get another drink and for God’s sake _talk to a woman_. If you go home alone one more time I’ll beat you,” said Roger. Brian rolled his eyes. “I mean it!”

“Alright,” groaned Brian, equal parts anxious and willing. “They’re just so strange.”

“I was talking to one who was nice, short black hair, red skirt,” said Roger. He looked around the party and realised no one matched that description. “Or something like that.”

“Haven’t seen anyone here matching that description,” said Brian.

“Fuck, I can’t’ve forgotten how she looked, could I?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you, Rog.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Roger knowing exactly what it was supposed to mean. Brian just held his hands up in surrender, uninterested in starting a fight. “I’m sure Freddie’ll know who I meant.”

“Speaking of, where’s he been?” said Brian. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Neither have I,” said Roger. The two of them scanned the living for him and both failed to spot him. “Wait—Stop distracting me. Go talk to one of the girls here they’re all up for it. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

“I’ve had sex before—” began Brian.

“Well,” said Roger only half convinced, “then this should be a picnic for you shouldn’t it.”

Roger couldn’t help laugh watching Brian walk away in a huff. Without Brian at his side, he began looking for that girl. Hadn’t remembered her name, and it was becoming more and more clear he hadn’t really remembered her face. He hoped beyond hope she would come looking for him and decided on having a piss and splashing water in his face to try and jog his memory.

Roger stumbled through Brian’s flat, trying to remember where exactly the bathroom was. He didn’t visit often and the place was new so he chanced it and opened the last door down the hall and instantly recognised it as Tim’s room. But was was arguably more interesting was Freddie in there. Lit dimly by a bedside lamp, the gold glow just catching his dark hair. On his knees in front of one of the many more eclectic guests, his eyes shut sweetly, his cheeks hollowed out, his mouth full of his cock.

“Fuck out ‘f here,” snapped the man.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Roger, averting his eyes and searching for the doorknob to slam the bedroom shut.

“Rog wait!” called Freddie as Roger yanked the door back into it’s frame. If Freddie followed him out he didn’t notice in his rush to get another drink. He leaned in to the conversation being made, adding useless contributions and hoping he got the topic right as his mind force fed him the vivid image of Freddie. Only getting more and more vivid as he tried to distract himself from it.

“Rog!” called Freddie’s voice. He didn’t look away from the man he was talking too and in his drunken state he couldn’t really tell where his voice was coming from. But he ignored it, pretended he hadn’t heard and loudly spoke to few people circled around him about nothing in particular.

He bounced from conversation to conversation, suddenly playing host and ensuring everyone had a good time while constantly moving about the room, never settling never staying still long enough for Freddie to casually pull him to the side. He was always somewhere behind him, someone calling his name just loud enough over the din of the party and always being ignored by Roger who had some conversation he was utterly enthralled with.

And when Freddie had enough and elbowed his way into the conversation, Roger pounded back his drink and made his way back to the kitchen. He filled his glass back up with the random assortment of liquor and mixers left out on the counter. He didn’t care how it tasted he just didn’t want to think. About anything at all. He rested against the kitchen sink and waited for Freddie to hunt him down again.

Before he had much rest sitting against the counter, the woman he lost before, sidled up to him. Her hair wasn’t black, her skirt wasn’t red, but Roger didn’t care to correct his own memory of her. All his previous intentions with her were no longer a priority.

“Countdown’s almost here,” said the woman quietly.

“Oh is it?” said Roger. His mind racing too fast to be worried about 1970 nearly dawning.

“I was thinking, after all the drinks are taken, I might go.” Roger looked down to see the woman, her name still not coming to mind, batting her eyelashes. “And I thought you might come with me.”

The rest of the party began the countdown on ten.

“I don’t think so,” said Roger.

“Eight!” shouted the party.

“Why not?” said the woman, trying not to look hurt.

“I’ve just, got something to deal with,” said Roger. The answer of not being able to stop picturing Freddie on his knees wasn’t one he was willing to give so he kept it vague. And though she looked put out, upset even, when 1970 rang in she kissed him, clinked their glasses together, and wished him a happy new year before leaving him alone.

And alone, in the bare white kitchen, some semblance of quiet surrounding him, he could think.

It was awkward for him. Painfully awkward to see his closest friend in such a compromising position, in more ways than one. But dodging him all night wasn’t going to make it less awkward. Refusing to talk to him for nearly an hour wasn’t helping. Leaving Freddie to believe the worst case all night wasn’t much of a kindness to him no matter how embarrassed and strange he felt. And he couldn’t help but notice Freddie stopped following him, stopped trying to explain it, likely having given up almost entirely.

Roger sighed and set his drink down and meandered back out into the mess of the party. He moved around the mess of bodies meeting until he found Brian’s enormous hair.

“Where’s Fred?”

“Thank God you’re still here!” said Brian. “Freddie left and took none of his freakish friends with him I—”

“He left?” said Roger.

“Just now, but you’re still here—” began Brian.

“I’ve got to catch him—Happy new year, Bri,” said Roger with an overly dramatic kiss to his cheek. Brian called after him, complaining about the people he couldn’t herd out of his apartment and the wet mark Roger left on his cheek but Roger paid it no mind and tugged his coat off the coat rack.

~~~

“There you are!” called Roger down the street. Freddie didn’t walk fast in the winter, he was a tremendous baby about the cold weather, but he’d got quite a lead on Roger who only spotted him a block from their flat. Freddie stopped when he heard his name, his arms crossed over his chest as Roger jogged up to meet him. “I ran the whole way, what d’you sprint home?”

“No just, left early I suppose,” said Freddie, his voice holding a peculiar shyness it never held.

Roger caught his breath, a little winded from his impromptu run on a stomach full of whiskey, and stared at Freddie. Unsure what to say, unsure how to help, but desperate to say anything that might patch it all over. Even if it was temporary, just for the night, something to show him the awkwardness, the tension and strained words, were temporary.

“Look,” said Freddie, uncrossing his arms, “I know what you’re gonna say. But…I mean everyone does stupid things when they’re drunk, everyone does and you just caught me at a bad time, it doesn’t have to be a whole—”

“Fred, I’m sorry,” said Roger. He couldn’t listen to Freddie try to backtrack as if sucking cock was an accident one might fall into after a few cans. “I admit I was embarrassed, I saw much more than I wanted to see. But I don’t mind. Not in the way you think I do.”

“Rog, I don’t like—I like women—I’m going out with that girl Mary soon and—” began Freddie, his words getting more and more frantic, his voice getting more strained. Roger interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder.

“If that’s the case that’s fine too. It’s both fine with me, I don’t mind,” said Roger.

“Well thanks but…I don’t need it,” said Freddie shrugging Roger’s hand off his shoulder.

“Well,” Roger slipped his hands back in his jacket pocket, “if you did need it, you’d have it.”

Freddie looked as if he might double down, might keep insisting. So Roger threaded his arm through Freddie’s and started them on their walk again. Shutting them both up for the rest of the freezing home. They made excuses to go to bed as soon as they’d taken their boots and coats off. With no more than two half-hearted ‘happy new years’ they closed their bedroom doors.

And he didn’t mind, Roger knew he didn’t mind it deep down. He’d known of people before who were the same way and never really blinked at it. But as he laid awake, the room still turning from the whiskey, his head still a mess, the only clear thought that came through was the way Freddie’s swollen lips looked, the way his hands curled around the man’s hips. The way his hair glowed in the golden light, the quiet noises that got lost in his throat.

“I’m drunk,” murmured Roger, his voice quiet but loud enough to echo in his own ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this chapter got uploaded super quick for me! But it's also only 2.1k long so the next chapter will be longer but will also take more time -- please comment if you like it so far <333

**1970 - March**

“And,” continued Freddie, “piss drunk I was, went on stage acting sober as a nun! You remember, Rog?” Freddie reached across the pub table and tugged Roger’s sleeve.

“I do remember,” laughed Roger, “three of us hadn’t a clue you’d had a drink ’til you got off stage.”

“Stage is a strong word for it darling,” laughed Freddie. “More of a clearing at the back of the room.”

“One day it’ll be a proper stage,” said the girl under Roger’s arm.

“Oh I’m sure of it,” said Freddie with a half-hidden grin.

Freddie was a magnet for all sorts when they went out. He drew everybody in with the way he told even the dullest stories, and he went home with the second prettiest girl, Roger usually having gotten the prettiest. And even though Roger saw him on a daily basis, he still was always just as enthralled with his retellings as anyone else. At a certain point in the night Roger was done talking and ready to go home with whoever he’d nabbed for the night, but Freddie never really got that way. He could talk anyone’s ear off for as long as they’d let him.

Which made it that much funnier when they’d trudge home and Freddie would complain about how much talking he had to do. A shy man in an extroverts disposition, Brian once called it. But as Roger listened to Freddie captivate his audience, he wondered if maybe he just didn’t want the talking to end and everything else to start.

“Another round?” said Roger, the night of chatting up whoever he could starting to grate on his voice.

“Actually,” said the girl under Freddie’s arm, “I’ve got to be up early.”

“Oh,” Freddie’s voice didn’t have the disappointment of a man who just lost out on a good shag. And though the woman didn’t notice, Roger did. Roger couldn’t help but notice those things now. The way he flinched when women touched him, the way he never talked about the women he saw.

“I haven’t,” said the girl under Roger’s arm. Her name on the tip of his tongue.

“ ’S alright, darling.” Freddie downed the last few sips of his pint. “We should all be headed back anyway.”

Roger told the girls they’d bring their van around while they pretended not to be about to argue over only one of them going straight home. The air was starting to warm in the day, but at night it was still just as frigid as ever.

“Don’t mind driving do you?” said Roger, tossing Freddie the keys.

Freddie dropped them and plucked them out of the snow. “I don’t know how to, Rog.”

“Yes you do you’re just shit at it,” teased Roger, prodding him in the side. Freddie always flinched so wonderfully when he did that, every single time. And every single time it made them both break out into giggles.

“What if we have to get on a real proper road?” sighed Freddie.

“Ask the girl you were with to drive.”

“I should’ve gone home with Brian and Deaky, this is ridiculous.” Freddie’s hands shook with the cold as he unlocked the driver’s side door.

“They’re wet blankets,” said Roger. He waited for Freddie to pop the side door open for him to jump in. “What kind of band leaves that soon after a gig? If we hadn’t stayed we’d be a laughing stock.”

Roger couldn’t help grin when he saw Freddie roll his eyes. “If I crash this van on your head be it.”

“Stay in first the whole time you wont get past 25 miles an hour, there’s no way you can’t do it.”

Roger knew there was a distinct chance of Freddie stalling the van on their drive home but he didn’t mind as long as for part of the ride he wasn’t cooped up in the front seat wishing he and the blonde girl, whatever he name was, were alone in the back.

“Besides,” said Roger, heaving the door mostly shut on his way in, “at least now you don’t have to pretend to be interested in her.”

As soon as it came out he regretted it. What he thought might be a light joke left Freddie completely frozen in the front seat, loosening and tightening his hands around the steering wheel. Roger wasn’t sure what made him think a joke would be okay, they hadn’t said a single word about it in three months, an impromptu jab certainly should never have been on the table.

“You know, because you won’t shut up about that Mary,” said Roger, backpedaling furiously.

“Right,” muttered Freddie as he turned the engine over.

Roger sat back against the body of the van. Freddie would put on his sociable face in a moment when the girls joined them but until then they had to sit in it. As Freddie slowly crept the van out from the carpark to the front of the pub, they had to sit and listen to each other breathe and know the other had the same thing on his mind.

“Fred—I didn’t mean it like that—” began Roger.

“Over here!” called Freddie out the window, waving to the girls as they came out of the pub. “Rog, open the door.”

“Freddie—” tried Roger one more time.

“Open the door,” spat Freddie. It wouldn’t get resolved with the girls waiting on them, so Roger pulled the door open and welcomed the girl he was with in the back while he friend climbed up front with Freddie.

“Now there’s no seats back here, you’ll have to hold on to me,” said Roger as he propped up against the bulge of the wheel well. The girl batted her mascara-coated eye lashes and sat next to him, her body flush against his.

“You may have to give me some instruction here, I’m shit at driving,” said Freddie to his passenger.

Roger hadn’t ever gotten off with someone in the van while it was moving but he was well on his way. While Freddie took his sweet time on minor turns, Roger had his tongue against the blonde’s and his hand up her freshly untucked blouse.

“Sorry about him,” Roger heard Freddie say from the front seat.

“No no,” said the woman up front. “ _I’m_ sorry about _her_.”

Roger would’ve rolled his eyes had he bothered to open them. The girl’s tongue moved with such expertise he could hardly handle being unable to put it to good use right then and there. And the more he felt the soft heat of her breasts the more he wanted her undressed, his lips running over her skin, lingering at her nipples.

The car stopped for a moment, and in that moment the girl’s friend jumped out of the car, thanking Freddie and pointedly ignoring her friend who barely pulled herself off Roger to wave. Roger couldn’t help the laugh he let out when the girl fell back onto him, eagerly rolling her body against his, trying to elicit a few more sounds from him as he did to her.

“Fuck,” muttered Freddie. Roger opened his eyes for a moment, and looked up into the rear mirror, catching a glimpse of Freddie’s eyes.

“Alright, Fred?” said Roger.

“Can’t shift gear but I’m fine,” laughed Freddie.

Roger laughed half heartedly and turned his focus back on the woman in his lap. But his eyes stayed open, and they occasionally looked up at Freddie’s eyes in the mirror, and occasionally they were looking back at him. Watching him, watching each other. And when the girl moved from Roger’s lips to suck marks into his neck, Roger kept his gaze on Freddie. And Freddie, lit only by the moon and the dim glow of the stoplight in front of them, stared back.

He wanted to make a joke, or some kind of comment. Something to acknowledge the strange intimacy of those lingering glances through the rearview mirror. But nothing came to mind, not with the woman so eagerly grinding against him.

He got deeper in with the woman, his hand inching it’s way down the front of her trousers, while she writhed in his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder and whined with every little movement of his fingers, and Roger watched Freddie, watched him blush and try to focus on his choppy driving.

“We’re here,” mumbled Freddie after twenty grueling minutes of first gear diving.

“Fuck.” The woman got her hand down Roger’s trousers in one swift motion. “Fuck, Fred, go up and leave the keys here.”

“Rog, seriously?” said Freddie, his voice sputtering a bit.

“Fred,” snapped Roger in reply.

Freddie looked put out, frustrated even, but he threw the keys in the back seat and slammed the driver’s door without another word.

With him gone, the woman wasted no time in choking herself around Roger’s cock. Roger barely had time to shimmy his trousers down his hips before she’d taken all of him. He threw his head back against the unforgiving hardness of the car’s frame but couldn’t find it in himself to care how bad it hurt. He shut his eyes and let her bob up and down, her tongue moving just as perfectly he thought it would.

He ran his fingers through her hair, subtly pushing her head down, slightly thrusting his hips up as she hummed. In the dark of the van, her features were practically invisible, the colour entirely washed out. He looked down at her through his heavily lidded eyes and saw mostly just the shadows and highlights of her face, her nose, the bit of light her hair caught. So he closed his eyes once more, and tried to imagine her lips, red and swollen, her hair as mussed as he knew he must’ve made it.

And though her eyes were deep blue, her hair a brassy bleached blonde, her lips rather thin and a dark shade of red, he pictured her much differently. His mind imagined black hair, deep brown eyes. Full lips, fuller teeth, and perfectly hollowed cheeks. His eyes shot open.

There she was, a moonlit blonde with a throat full of him. He gripped her hair a little harder, forced himself to see her, desperate to force the image of Freddie on him out of his mind. But his focus was gone, he couldn’t help but think of the way he looked that night.

“Get off, get off,” groaned Roger. She giggled and sat back waiting for Roger to push her down and have his way, and he did. He kissed her, bit her lip and made her say his name as he tore her clothes off. Focusing his mouth on the curves and features of her lithe body that his mind couldn’t project Freddie onto. And once he’d had his fill, he let her taste herself on his tongue as his cock slid deep inside her.

She was loud, her voice high and breathy in a way that Freddie’s never was. But no matter what he tried, he wasn’t focusing on her. His thoughts confused, his moans covering words and names he wished he weren’t trying to say. And when it was over, for both of them, he caught his breath and ignored her useless praise before hurriedly insisting he drive her home.

~~~

Roger drove with his hands white knuckled around the wheel the whole ride back. His mind racing and his heart following suit. He’d had moments like that before, moments where the person he was with wasn’t the person he was imagining. He’d fucked countless women pretending they were exes or even just prettier women he fancied. But he’d never been unable to get _Freddie_ out of his mind.

It hadn’t felt like a strange, taboo, indulgent fantasy. It felt like an attack, an intrusive unwanted day dream. And he wanted to believe that his mind fixated on something disturbing and some sort of anxiety wouldn’t let him force the image away. But he didn’t stop. No he embraced it, leaned into it. He closed his eyes and pictured how Freddie might move, might feel beneath him, and he didn’t stop. He choked back his name and held onto his insufficient stand-in with all he was worth all the while picturing his best friend.

“No,” said Roger, out loud. As if that made it any more convincing.

He pulled up to their flat and clumsily parked the car. Parallel parking was never his strong suit even when he could focus on it. He hardly noticed the cold as he shuffled up their steps and pushed the door open.

“Christ, that was a long fuck,” said Freddie. He sat nestled in the couch, tea on coffee table and one of his operatic records on.

“I drove her home, that’s…that’s why,” said Roger. He couldn’t help blush at the site of him.

“Her roommate looked like she was going to skin her alive when we dropped her off,” said Freddie, a little giggle following his words.

“You looked the same when I told you to leave,” said Roger.

“Yes well,” Freddie’s words trailed off.

Roger hung his coat up, set his keys in the bowl and tried to remember what he normally did with his hands at a time like this. The silence between them settled in. Roger wanted desperately to break it, to say something, to diffuse the awkward tension. But Freddie stay quiet, sitting comfortably with tea in one hand, his music lulling him to sleep almost. Because of course Freddie hadn’t spent the night fucking someone and picturing Roger, no he’d had his own innocent night. Completely oblivious of the boundaries Roger had been mentally crossing over the last hour.

“Well,” sighed Freddie as the dead wax began to play, “I’m off. But do feel free to stand in the entry all night.”

“Sorry,” laughed Roger, hoping the light laughs masked how uncomfortable he was. “I was miles away.”

Freddie turned, propping himself up on the couch’s arm. “Thinking about what? You’ve not said a word for ages.”

“Nothing really,” said Roger, tugging his sleeves down. A nervous habit he hadn’t indulged since he was a young teenager.

“I’d drag it out of you but I’m rather tired,” said Freddie. He flicked off their record player and stretched when he stood.

“I’m…I could sleep too,” said Roger. Freddie giggled at his stunted wording and mumbled a quiet goodnight as he meandered to his room.

“Fred—Wait,” said Roger, his own voice a little louder than he thought it would be.

“What is it?” said Freddie, a sleepy smile on his face.

He wanted to tell him and take the curse off it. Wanted to shamefully but with a sense of humour, admit he’d had a strange night and Freddie had been the cause, admit his mind wandered down an extremely perverted road and have Freddie laugh it off with him, even tease him about it.

But just before he spoke he remembered the anxiety, the stress, and frustration that radiated off Freddie when Roger made his tactless comment in the car. Remembered how something so small upset him for so long and couldn’t imagine this would help. The fear of Freddie thinking it was a joke, thinking he was mocking him, was too great. It was a weird night, and he felt filthy for it. But this one he could bear alone.

“If…you’re up early enough can you get more petrol?” said Roger, sheepishly. “Van’s almost out.”

“Oh…sure. I can see why that was so dire,” teased Freddie. “G’night, Roger.”

“G’night, Fred…and, look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier—” began Roger, the words tumbling out before he could clear them.

“ _Goodnight_ , Roger,” said Freddie sternly as he shut his door.

Roger knew he’d earned that. Freddie didn’t want to talk, in fact he wouldn’t talk. There was no point in offering an amends for something he wanted to ignore entirely.

He peeled off his sweaty clothes as he headed for the shower. And in the steamed up little room he could think of all that Freddie might say if he had told him. All of the little jokes he’d make, all of the ways he’d soothe his mind and promise he wasn’t a pervert, promise he hadn’t spoiled their friendship, and tease him for ever thinking that was the case. And in the steam it helped, but he couldn’t stay in the steam all night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a minute since I updated, so sorry for that, but I hope you like the next chapter, I know I said this would be longer but I changed a lot from my original outline because I thought this fit better so the longer chapter is After this one now I'm sorry!! But I hope you enjoy this one too!!

**1970 - Christmas Eve**

Just as Roger predicted, the infatuation went as quickly as it came. He had a week, maybe two or three really, of having Freddie on his mind in that way. The image of him on his knees would pop up when he’d have a girl over, or the few times he had to employ his own hand. Those weeks were hellish, full of guilt and shame and an inability to look Freddie in the eyes. But then, as if by divine intervention it all stopped. Proving to Roger that it was the mental equivalent of a car crash, something he didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away from until he knew all of it’s details.

With that behind him, he couldn’t help but feel relieved he never told Freddie in an attempt to make those thoughts stop. The humiliation of that scenario aside, Roger was sure Freddie would’ve assumed he was lying, making fun of him, making light of his situation or, heaven forbid, trying to talk about it. And that was one thing they never did. They hadn’t said a word of it since that night and as far as Roger was concerned, Freddie was very content with his girlfriend.

“Shouldn’t we save that?” said Freddie when Roger triumphantly held up the can of bread sauce.

“For what?” laughed Roger. “It’s either this or we learn how to make the lentils your mum dropped off.”

“Seems a waste,” said Freddie. He rummaged around their drawers for the can opener while Roger set a saucepan on their only working burner. “I don’t know how to make this and I’m sure you don’t either, what if we ruin it?”

“How can you ruin bread sauce?” Freddie handed Roger the can-opener and he set to work crimping the sides of the aluminum.

Freddie’s family didn’t celebrate Christmas, and while Roger’s did he liked to pretend they didn’t. He told people he didn’t have the time, the money even, to visit home. Told them he was busy with his studies if anyone really pressed. But he told Freddie the truth which was he didn’t want to see his father. So they had their own small Christmas.

The raucous parties were over with, all of their friends were with their loved ones while the two of them were holed up in their flat. The heating was on the blink, something broke the week before and the radiators hadn’t been working since. It wasn’t uncommon for the heating to be out for a few days, a week even, but something about their flat being as cold as the outdoors on Christmas made it bleak. Coming in from the cold right back into the cold had Roger almost wishing he would’ve just put up with his father for a warm house. Almost.

He shook the cylindrical concentration of bread sauce into the saucepan and prodded it with a wooden spoon. Freddie stood next to him, watching the bread sauce slowly become soupy.

“Seems awfully thick,” said Freddie.

“I think you’re supposed to add milk, you know to make it a sauce.”

“We’ve not got milk,” said Freddie.

“Want to try water?” said Roger. He looked over to meet Freddie’s eyes. As Roger stirred in silence for a moment they broke out into big grins.

“Good lord, we’re really scraping down the edges of rock bottom aren’t we?” said Freddie, his smile wide and genuine.

“If you would’ve listened to your mother’s long explanation of how to cook those damn lentils we might have a real supper on our hands.”

“D’you suppose Brian’s too busy to come down and sort the lentils?” said Freddie. He poured a splash of water into the pan and watched intently as Roger stirred it. “He’s a vegetarian, he knows how I’m sure.”

“Yes its,” Roger checked his watch, “quarter to ten on Christmas Eve, I’m sure he’s free.”

“Bastard doesn’t even have siblings to cover for him, he really is useless,” said Freddie, trying not to snigger at his own words and failing.

“Get some bowls, soups on,” said Roger when he saw the sauce burning at the edges of the saucepan.

They clumsily poured the mostly flavourless sauce into two bowls and shuffled over to their cramped little living room. Just big enough for the one couch they bought and their shitty television set. But, with the shades down, and a few candles lit, the room insulated by the carpet, by the blankets, they found a bit of warmth.

The bread sauce was bad but at least it was hot and it heated them up as they ate and watched the silent telly, both too lazy to get up and turn the volume up or even change the channel.

“I can’t do anymore,” said Freddie, setting down his bowl on their coffee table. “It tastes like wood.”

Roger held back a laugh as he swallowed another spoonful of the sauce. “You know, my mum’s a great cook. Doesn’t cook big often of course, but on Christmas she makes a beef tenderloin that’s worthy of a michelin star.” He lifted another spoonful to his mouth but let it drop back into the soup. “You know this is the third year I haven’t gone home.”

“Sorry,” added Roger when he saw Freddie’s blank face trying to find some words of comfort. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“Everyone gets homesick over the holidays,” said Freddie. His face fallen, his eyes a bit sad as he scrambled for something more profound to say.

“But it’s fine. I see Clare and my mum often enough. The cold’s just getting to me I think,” said Roger. He pulled his blanket higher up across his lap to prove his point.

“Oh!” said Freddie as he jumped up. “I have a gift for you! Might come in handy about now.” With that he rushed into the kitchenette, Roger could see him fly to the fridge and heave it open.

“Fred,” whined Roger as he watched him rummage. “We said no gifts this year.”

“It’s for both of us!”

Roger sighed and slumped back into his spot on the couch. His eyes darted around the room looking for something he could pass off as a surprise gift for Freddie. The TV Guide looked good, their potted plant looked better.

“This!” said Freddie. He hung out of the kitchen and triumphantly held up a bottle of champagne. “Let me find some glasses.”

“You bought cha—” began Roger. Champagne was much better than a potted plant they already owned.

“No! I meant it, it’s for both of us,” said Freddie. “Brian bought a bunch for the Christmas party and I hid this one in my bedroom from you and everyone else because I knew our Christmas Eve dinner might be a can of olives or something. Open this.”

Freddie handed the bottle to Roger who tore the foil while Freddie sat at his side, two mismatched glasses in his hands waiting to be filled. Roger couldn’t help his enormous grin watching Freddie wait for him to open the cheap bottle of champagne. Even when it was miserable, Freddie made it fun, and even when Freddie was miserable he made it fun for everyone else.

“Good job, Fred, Brian’s usually so careful about counting what he came in with,” said Roger as his thumbs got settled under the cork.

“That’s why I made sure he was faced, darling.”

Roger giggled, remembering how bad off Brian was at the party. Then the cork popped and shot across the room. Roger remembered only after it sailed into their wallpaper that he was meant to catch it. He muttered an oh well and filled his and Freddie’s glasses to the brim.

“See,” said Freddie as Roger took a big swig of his drink, “isn’t this better than home-cooked meals and seeing your sister and mum.”

“Oh much better,” laughed Roger. And though he laughed he knew it was partially true. There was a level of comfort he felt around Freddie that he didn’t feel around anyone else and though it was cold and Roger couldn’t feel his feet, and though their dinner was sauce and their dessert some stolen wine, he didn’t mind it, not with Freddie around.

“Put a record on Blondie,” said Freddie. “Whatever’s on the telly looks painfully boring.”

“Any requests?” said Roger as his fingers combed through their collection.

“Anything you like.”

“New Bowie?” said Roger, knowing Freddie could do without Bowie’s shrieking.

“It’s Christmas, have your Bowie,” said Freddie before downing his wine. Roger grinned and hurriedly set his brand new Bowie record on their turntable. As a courtesy to Freddie’s ears, he didn’t crank the volume as high as he normally would but instead let it fall into the background. Both silently listening and drinking, and on occasion getting closer to each other for a bit of extra warmth.

Black Country Rock played softly from their shitty speakers. Roger knew Freddie could actually stand this song and looked over at him, wanting to see a little glimmer of enjoyment in his eyes. Freddie smiled at him, sweetly, his eyes getting sleepy. And Roger grinned back. And Freddie scooted a bit closer, his eyes still locked on Roger’s. And while moments before Roger could’ve put a record on and fallen asleep, the second Freddie inched towards him with his brown eyes shining like they were, his heart began to beat out of his chest.

For months, months on end he’d thought nothing of Freddie. For months he’d stopped the strange daydreams before they ever started, and hadn’t woken up from a dead sleep after a dream of him in ages. He thought his brain’s fixation on that taboo aside was over and he could forget it every happened. But staring into Freddie’s eyes it felt far from over.

“Can you let me do something?” said Freddie, leaning in a bit, holding his wine a bit tighter. Roger could feel his face burning and hoped Freddie couldn’t see it in him.

“What is it?” said Roger, his voice barely a squeak.

“I don’t know if you’re up to it,” said Freddie, he took another sip of his wine and set it on the table. He looked back at Roger, his eyelids heavy as he reached up to brush the hair from his face. Roger leaned into the light touch, suddenly desperate for what he thought he’d forgotten.

“Yes, Freddie?” prompted Roger.

“Will you let me braid your hair?” said Freddie. Roger let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and thanked whatever divine beings he could think of that Freddie’s eyes were on his hair not his crestfallen face.

“Oh, oh—Sure,” said Roger. The disappointment almost audible.

“I promise I won’t tug it too hard, I know you hate when people touch your hair—or, well, when people who aren’t trying to fuck you,” said Freddie with a giggle. Roger mimicked it halfheartedly and turned around in his seat as Freddie gathered Roger’s hair in his hands.

“French or dutch?” said Freddie.

“Whats the difference?” Roger finished off his wine, Freddie paused to pour them both more.

“French is almost woven against your head right,” he paused to take a swig of his refreshed wine, “an a dutch is the same but it comes out more—I’ll just do french, I’m getting ahead of myself a bit.”

“Aren’t you good at it?” said Roger as Freddie’s blunt fingernails scratched his head and brushed his hair back.

“Kash wouldn’t let me practice, said I took too long,” said Freddie. “Okay hold still.”

Roger closed his eyes once Freddie’s hands were gently tugging his hair, running lightly over his shoulders, scratching his neck. And he knew he must’ve been bright red. He didn’t expect to have his hair braided. He wasn’t sure what exactly he thought Freddie was going to ask but braiding his hair wasn’t on the list. And in the comfortable silence of Freddie’s concentration he couldn’t help wonder what he _wanted_ Freddie to ask.

Freddie’s fingers brushed his neck, running over his collarbone, trying to incorporate a few strands of loose hair. Roger felt the goosebumps and hope Freddie didn’t notice but heard him hold back a breathy laugh.

“Fred,” began Roger, fed up with his own uncontrollable thoughts as he took another big sip of his wine, “something happened.”

“Oh yeah?” said Freddie, incorporating another section of hair. “Things do tend to happen.”

“It’s embarrassing,” said Roger, “but I keep thinking about it, and I think if you just know I’ll stop thinking so hard about it.”

“Sounds interesting, darling, don’t keep me on my toes,” said Freddie, he tugged his hair as a prompt.

“That night that I fucked that girl in the van, the time I made you drive?” said Roger. He wanted Freddie to remember, to confirm that he fucking remembered so Roger could finish blurting out what he’d held in for what felt like decades.

“I remember,” said Freddie.

“Well, when, when she blew me,” said Roger, his voice starting to shake, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Freddie’s hands, that had been moving so deftly around his head, stopped and rested in his hair. “Oh.”

“Isn’t that funny,” said Roger, knowing it wasn’t but also not quite done with his confession. “For a little bit there I kept seeing your face when I was with anyone, weird right?”

“What are you,” said Freddie, his hands leaving Roger’s hair, “what’re you trying to tell me?”

“Nothing,” Roger’s voice got about an octave higher with the panic to cover up the mess he’d made. He spun around, his hair half braided and his face bright red. “Nothing, I thought it was funny, just a laugh, and you might think it was funny too.”

“Okay,” said Freddie, his face stoic and still as the record played the crackling dead wax. Roger stared at him waiting for him to break, waiting for him to start the teasing or the playful jabs to take the curse off this horrible thing. “I guess it’s a bit funny.”

“I—yes, it is!” said Roger far too eagerly. “It’s hilarious, I mean can you imagine? Me with a man, it’s laughable, me with you is just, well, something so farfetched and fucked up that my mind kept forcing me to imagine it, for a laugh.”

“Right,” said Freddie with an awkward, inauthentic laugh. “Very…fucked up that, yes.”

“Can you imagine,” added Roger again, his fake laugh beginning to grate on his own ears.

“No I couldn’t,” said Freddie with a toothy grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry you’ve been dealing with all of that.”

“It’s—it’s fine. It was just a few fucks and few wanks thinking of the wrong person,” laughed Roger as he clapped Freddie on the shoulder.

“Still,” said Freddie, leaning into the lingering touch of Roger’s hand on his shoulder. “Must be frustrating to keep imagining such a turn off.”

“Well, it wasn’t as much of a turn off as I thought it would be.” The words came out before he’d had a chance to think them through. And though blushes weren’t usually visible on Freddie, he was a lovely shade of pink, which Roger knew meant he himself must be bright red. But he didn’t take his hand off Freddie’s shoulder.

And though he shook a bit when Freddie put a hand on his thigh he didn’t reject it. Just let his long fingers trail up and down his leg. Normally Roger held all the confidence in the room but with Freddie’s eyes on him, his hand on him, he couldn’t speak, could hardly move.

“If it makes you feel any better I’ve thought of you too,” said Freddie. “Not on purpose, you just pop in there.”

“It does,” said Roger, his voice uneven and higher than any grown man should sound. “Freddie.”

“Yes?” said Freddie. His eyes wide and expectant.

Roger leaned forward, scooted into Freddie and Freddie did the same in a hurry, both desperate to get to the other before the moment past. And with equal need and excitement they grabbed each other by whatever they could get their hands on and pressed their lips together. Drunken, sloppy, the taste of the champagne still present, but perfect just the same.

To feel Freddie’s hands on him, to feel Freddie’s body under his own, it all felt right. He was drunk, and he’d blame that the next morning when they woke up together on the couch, freezing and satisfied, but for now he leaned into how much he wanted it. How good it felt to feel Freddie’s tongue against his own, to feel his finger nails combing through and tugging when he wanted more.

“God, Freddie,” muttered Roger somewhere against his skin before returning to his lips.

“Rog,” sighed Freddie. “Rog.”

“Mm,” hummed Roger.

“No,” Freddie’s hands left him and pressed against his chest firmly. “Stop, stop, stop.”

Roger pulled away and looked down at Freddie’s hands pushing back to arms length.

“What’s wrong?” said Roger. Freddie’s hands feel from his chest as he reached for his glass of champagne left on the table.

He drank everything in the glass and fixed his gaze somewhere faraway while he made sure it settled in his stomach. Roger held his breath the whole time. And when Freddie finally looked back up at him, he grinned, small and sincere and rested a hand on Roger’s cheek.

“Alright,” said Freddie just under his breath before he stood. “Let’s go to bed. Do you want the big blanket, you can have the big blanket.”

He’d only offered it up to tell Roger in a kinder way that they would be sleeping alone. Roger wordlessly declined the offer for the big blanket and watched Freddie pick their dishes up, pick the blanket he’d been using up, and wandered away, turning the kitchen sink on and rinsing their bowls.

“Oh,” called Freddie from the kitchen, “Merry Christmas, Rog.”

“What?” said Roger.

“It’s midnight, Merry Christmas,” said Freddie as he reappeared on the edge of their hallway and the kitchen.

“Happy Christmas, Fred,” said Roger. Freddie grinned back weakly before heading to his room and shutting the door.

Roger wanted to sit on the couch all night and wallow in the humiliation and embarrassment, wanted to sit and listen to music while he forced back tears. But with Freddie gone the warmth of the room was quickly seeping away. So he blew the few candles on the coffee table out and made sure their turntable was switched off before he shut his bedroom door and fell into an icy, lonely bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments! Yes! I do like torturing you! I tagged it as angst with a happy ending and by god you're gonna get your angst but Also the happy ending so no one worry! Thank you to everyone commenting it makes my day! Hope you enjoy this chapter! <33

**1971 — February**

Freddie moved with such passion, such flair and raw power. Behind his drum kit, Roger couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He couldn’t hide the grin on his face when Freddie turned to watch him play too. Something about the greatest performer wanting to watch him perform made him practically vibrate with a kind of excitement he rarely felt off stage. He wondered if it showed in his playing, if Freddie did that on purpose to bring up the show rather than out of genuine love of watching Roger the same way Roger loved watching him, but he didn’t care. Cloud nine was on a shitty stage with shittier mics and speakers, playing to crowd they had to win over with Freddie at the helm.

Freddie eventually said goodnight to the audience who lingered and watched them dismantle Roger’s kit and heave it out the back door into their van. They had a strange level of fame where it felt uncomfortable to stay on stage after a gig as everyone wanted to talk to them, but they weren’t quite big enough to just have someone else carry the drums and amps out. So their few but passionate fans watched them lug their equipment out.

“At least the pay’s going up,” said Brian as he helped Roger position his bass drum in the back of the van.

“We should hire a roadie,” said Roger.

“Sure, _you_ hire a roadie from _your_ cut,” emphasised Brian. “A raise in pay does not mean a living salary, Rog.”

“Who needs a living salary when I can come by yours and raid the fridge?” said Roger, pushing the drum in a few more inches before deciding the others were ready to be positioned. “I’ll get the toms, John should be out with the snare.”

“What’s Freddie doing?” said Brian.

“Other than getting out of doing any heavy lifting?” said Roger, looking back at Brian with a grin as he headed for the stage door. “Some fans bought him a drink, let him talk us up! He’s only drop the amps anyway!”

He swung the backdoor open and hopped up on stage with John who was trying to remember how to collapse the hi hat. Roger let him struggle for a few silent seconds before swatting his hand away and showing him how it was done. John watched him intently but Roger knew he’d forget next time around.

“Why do drum kits need so many parts,” groaned John as he lined the toms up next to each other. “There has to be something more convenient than this whole mess, it’s so bulky.”

“Part of the _flash_ , Deaks, keep up.” Roger moved on to folding up his cymbal stands. “I know he’s a princess, but Freddie ought to help us with some of this, it’ll go much quicker.”

“But the image, he’s making popular,” said John.

“I can make us popular,” grumbled Roger.

“Yes but we need a big strong man to carry out all the equipment with us,” teased John.

Roger looked out over to the bar. Freddie had his back pressed to the wood of the bar, entertaining the group of men he was chatting with. Roger couldn’t help lingering on that scene and wishing he were one of he men Freddie so wished to enthrall. But Freddie made it clear months ago that Roger got the wrong idea when he pushed him away at Christmas, and Roger figured that without Freddie to help him he didn’t want to explore that side of himself anyway. So while his eyes lingered on the way Freddie had them all hanging on his every word, he did look away eventually, and remind himself of Freddie’s insistence on Mary, of Freddie’s insistence on _not Roger._

“Uh,” said Roger, feeling the need to break the silence, as if his thoughts had been broadcasted to John, “grab the high tom and the snare and I’ll get the floor tom. Brian can get the rest.”

“Ah, ‘Brian can get the rest’, what a wonderful sentence,” said John with a grin.

The two of them lugged the drums out to the van. Roger settled them in the back while Brian went back in for the hi hat and cymbals with John. Roger drove the van, as it was his, and had one passenger seat. So while half of his job was organising the drums in the back to make sure they fit, the other half was making sure he left a space big enough for Freddie and John, the two smallest if Roger wasn’t included.

Brian and John returned and rolled in Roger’s cymbals one by one, making sure they wouldn’t roll around the whole ride.

“Where’s Fred?” sighed Brian.

“You don’t want to stay for a drink?” said Roger.

“None of us do,” snapped Brian. “We’ve got a show to make tomorrow and we won’t do it by hanging around here. We’ve got to leave early.”

“ _Alright_ ,” groaned Roger. There was nothing he hated more than the moments when Brian behaved like the only serious member of the band. “I’ll go get him, you two make sure there’s room enough for two in the back.”

Roger headed back into the stage door, heaving it open and welcoming the warmth that flooded out when he did. He spotted Freddie, still at the bar. Most of the lingering fans had all become disenchanted with them after watching how gracelessly they had to take apart their own equipment, but the men around Freddie remained. Only now there weren’t four or five men but two, and they weren’t hanging off of Freddie’s every word so much as hanging off him. Touching his hips, his shoulders, his waist, faster than Freddie could swat their hands away.

Roger blushed like he’d caught them doing something far worse, like it was another New Years incident all over again. He averted his eyes, unsure if anyone cared that he was there yet and hoping to leave without being seen or at least being acknowledged.

“Stop,” said Freddie, with a stunted giggle, slapping their hands away audibly. “I mean it, really.”

“C’mon, Freddie,” said one of them.

“No really, I meant what I said, I’ve got a girl—Stop touching me,” said Freddie. His voice was still laced with laughter but it sounded more afraid than breezy.

“H-hey Fred!” called Roger, unsure what broke him out of his embarrassed and uncomfortable trance but glad something had. “Waitin’ on you.”

“That’s my cue boys,” said Freddie. They didn’t let him go without a bit of struggle, blocking his way, trying to get a few more laughs out of him a few more touches as he crossed the room to Roger. He crossed his arms tight over his chest and gave Roger a toothless and short smile of courtesy before rushing out of the room and into the carpark out back.

Roger awkwardly looked back at the two men before following Freddie out. There wasn’t time to ask or discuss it, and by the looks of how fast Freddie walked to the van, he wasn’t interested in discussing it anyway.

“I’m sitting up front,” said Freddie to Brian who was settled in his spot as passenger.

“Fred, I’m too long for the back—” began Brian.

“Please, just this once, I don’t feel well,” said Freddie. Roger let them fight it out until eventually Freddie won and Brian climbed into the back with John.

Freddie was normally rather chatty after gigs, he liked to go over his favourite bits and write down things he felt worked, things they ought to keep doing. But he was silent, not even bothering to turn the radio on for Roger who eventually clicked it on and breathed a sigh of relief when the music filled the void their words normally did.

“Alright Freddie?” said John a good five minutes into their drive.

“Hm?” said Freddie breaking from a deep thought. “Oh, just fine. My stomach’s a bit upset, that’s all. Don’t worry I’ve got notes for everyone tomorrow.”

That was enough reassurance in Freddie’s wellbeing for Brian and John to start up a conversation in the back. But Roger could see the emotion painted all over Freddie’s face and anything except addressing the elephant in the room of what was bothering Freddie felt almost like an insult.

They dropped John off first as he lived the furthest and Brian helped him get his bass out of the van without their pyramid of equipment tumbling. Brian was next, his new flat a bit further than his old one. Brian had just barely slammed the door to the van before Freddie reached over and shut the radio off.

Roger pulled away from Brian’s building and drove up to the light that shifted to red just as they hit it.

“Freddie,” said Roger, turning to him, one hand still on the wheel.

“What, Roger, fucking what do you want?” snapped Freddie.

Roger held up his hands in surrender and laughed a bit under his breath, trying to diffuse the tension. But Freddie didn’t pay him any mind.

“Nothing happened,” said Freddie through gritted teeth.

“Those guys,” began Roger, his palms sweating around the steering wheel as he turned onto a side street and parked, “those guys were fucking disgusting, Fred, the way they manhandled you like that. I know nothing happened but you look shaken up, and I’d be too. Don’t beat yourself up for it—”

“I was flirting with them,” said Freddie. His words were quiet and his eyes red rimmed. “God, I’m such a fucking…”

“Don’t finish that thought,” said Roger. He reached a hand out for Freddie’s shoulder but he shook it off.

“You don’t get it.” Freddie wiped the few errant tears from his cheeks.

“I _do_ get it,” insisted Roger. It stung a little bit that Freddie didn’t grasp the sincerity of what he wanted, even if he wasn’t sure about it, even if he was still a little confused, he still meant it.

“No you don’t get it,” said Freddie more sure this time, more angry. “Because you like women.”

“And you don’t?” said Roger, asking more to confirm what he thought he already knew rather than it being new information.

“It’s always got to be such a big fucking issue.” Freddie wiped his cheeks angrily, his skin pinking up at the harsh treatment. “I can’t just, I can’t do fucking anything without it turning into this big fucking event. I hate this, Roger, I hate it.”

“What’s turned into an event, Freddie?” said Roger. He put his hand on his shoulder again and this time Freddie didn’t shake it off.

“The fucking,” Freddie gestured wildly at nothing, “the fucking New Years party. I couldn’t just try that out on my own, I had to get caught and go around the party the whole night trying to explain. I can’t just be with Mary because you’re looking at me like you know something I don’t—I can’t even just be with you! And I’m tired of it! Roger, I’m worn out!”

“What’re you—Freddie, I’m sorry about the party but no one knows but me. I never told a soul. And maybe, maybe I do look at you and Mary a little strange. But I think she’s all wrong for you I think you’re not yourself when your with her, not honest with yourself when you’re with her—” began Roger. Though he had planned on taking his feelings about Mary to the grave, it seemed they were more eager to make themselves known than he thought.

“You win!” screamed Freddie. His breath hitched as another wave of tears streamed down his face. “I don’t love her! I never did no matter how hard I fucking tried, and almost fucking you was the closest I’ve felt to happy in years, but there’s no prize for being right! Everything’s a fucking mess and it’s my fault and I just keep making it worse! Sucking strangers off at parties, kissing you, offering a threesome to two kind faces at a bar, I just keep fucking it up.”

Though he wanted to be right about Mary it was a hollow victory watching Freddie cry in the passenger seat. He was tempted to pry more, to ask why he’d offer a threesome to two strangers but wouldn’t let Roger get his top off, to ask why if the beginning of their night together felt right, why he’d turned Roger away so abruptly. But he felt the answers were self evident really. He didn’t want Roger, not even to experiment with. And hearing that from Freddie would hurt a little too much so he kept his mouth shut.

“You’re not fucking anything up,” said Roger.

“Oh _right_ ,” spat Freddie.

“ _Oh right_ ,” repeated Roger with a bit more bite. “Nothing you’re doing is wrong. You feel guilty because of Mary, don’t make this about what you do or what you want, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Freddie stayed silent for what felt like an eternity. Occasionally he’d wipe the tears from his cheeks in a gruff manner. Roger didn’t know how to comfort him at that point. He didn’t think telling Freddie about his lingering feelings would help, didn’t think Freddie cared either way in that moment. But nothing else came to mind, no other words of profound wisdom or comfort.

“Drive,” said Freddie, his voice scraggly. “I want to go home.”

Roger paused for a minute, hoping something would come to mind. But nothing did. He got back on the road and they drove home in a stunted silence. At every light Roger was tempted to turn to Freddie and tell him they were in the same boat and that they could help each other navigate it, but he never did. He resigned himself to being sure that if Freddie wanted him he wouldn’t have pushed him away that night on Christmas and saying anything else about it would only make things messier. Freddie didn’t need company in his confusion he needed an impartial ear to cry to.

They parked and Roger felt leaving the drums for one night wouldn’t hurt. Neither of them were up for lugging them down to their little storage space much less lugging them up to their flat. They buried their hands deep in their jacket pockets and hurried up to their door. Roger unlocked it and let Freddie pass him as he hung his jacket up.

“Rog,” said Freddie, turning and catching himself, just about to disappear down the hall. “Forget what I said, all of it. It’s not…true or anything.”

“Is it not?” said Roger. Freddie shook his head. Roger took a step towards him. “Either way I won’t tell.”

“I’ve had too much,” said Freddie, stone cold sober. “And I’m sorry.”

“For what?” said Roger not bothering to hide the little laugh that followed his words.

“Bringing the night down,” said Freddie with a shrug, “but…also for what happened at Christmas.”

“You don’t have to apologise for that I—” liked it, wanted it, started it. Before Roger could decide how to end the thought, Freddie waved his hand and cut him off.

“We were drunk but I can’t just use you for shit like that.”

“Use me?” said Roger, quieter and meeker.

“I hope there’s some solace in knowing I really just wanted to try it. I do love Mary, I didn’t…let all that happen with you because I wanted you or anything, it was just a mistake,” said Freddie.

“Oh, right,” Roger hoped he disguised the hurt in his voice. “That’s a…load of my mind.”

“I wanted to say so earlier but it felt weird to bring it up,” said Freddie with an awkward laugh. “But I hope that’s put your mind at ease.”

“Oh…yeah completely, totally.” Roger floundered for better words and found none.

“It’s just been a weird time for us, the last,” Freddie trailed off trying to recount how long it’d been. “The last little bit.”

“Well,” said Roger, “your twenties are supposed to be a little muddy aren’t they. We’re right on track to be normal.”

Freddie scoffed. “Yeah, I’m _so_ normal.”

“You are—” began Roger.

“I’m exhausted, we’ve got to get up early,” said Freddie, cutting the conversation off before it started. “Goodnight, Rog. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Night, Freddie.”

True to his word, Roger didn’t mention it again in the morning. They ate their hodgepodge breakfast and their surface level conversation was comfortable, comforting even. Neither wanted to bring up the elephant in the room for different reasons, Freddie obviously not wanting to admit his relationship with Mary was a sham, and Roger not wanting to think about how Freddie had so easily rejected him. So they were fine talking about the weather, the headlines, complaining about the hour they were up.

But when they piled into the van for their gig all the way up in Scotland, Roger couldn’t help catching glimpses of Freddie in the rear view. And when they were on stage together he couldn’t help zoning out, nearly missing his cues to watch Freddie work. And after the show he couldn’t help watching Freddie slip back into the habit of chatting up the men in the pub and feeling unearned and unwelcome waves of jealousy crash over him. He wanted to scream at him, remind him that he was lying to himself, remind him that Mary was waiting for his call. But Freddie knew that, Freddie knew his situation knew his own feelings better than Roger did, and no amount of yelling at him would change the fact that Freddie told him no.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I hope you guys enjoy it, I'm having a lot of fun with this because I know how it ends but everyone else remember it ends happy!! Thank you so much for commenting if you have, they really motivate me!! <3

**1971 - April  
**

“She wants me to come visit her parents over the holidays this year,” said Freddie, his fingers absentmindedly twirled a spoon in his tea cup.

Roger had mostly tuned out. He couldn’t stand to hear Freddie drone on and on about Mary for more than one reason. The four of them were sitting scattered on the floor of Freddie and Roger’s living room. The couch was big enough for two and a half people which meant Brian and Roger were on the floor opposite them while they finished off a game of Scrabble. And though he was mostly planning his next word and waiting for Freddie to change the subject, he perked up when he heard Freddie would be gone for Christmas.

“You’ve met her parents before right?” said Brian.

“Yes, but I’ve never had more than a passing conversation, we’ve never sat down together,” said Freddie.

“When were you gonna tell me this?” said Roger, a bit too audibly upset.

“Nothing’s set in stone,” said Freddie in a placating voice that Roger couldn’t protest with so many people watching.

“If you’re worried about being alone, Rog, you can come up with me,” offered Brian. He took his turn and earned another twenty points that John, their scorekeeper, jotted down.

“I’m fine being alone, I just like to know when it’s happening,” said Roger under his breath.

“Well, darling, I may not even go,” said Freddie. He placed a tile down thoughtlessly, all of them had begun to lose interest in the game. “But at very least since her father’s deaf we don’t have to worry about being quiet when we stay over.”

Roger gave a fake smirk amongst the laughter the other two offered Freddie. And maybe Freddie noticed his less than enthusiastic response but Roger didn’t give him time to point it out, to question him over it. He shot up and announced he needed more tea. He asked if anyone else needed a top up and didn’t wait to hear their responses before he hid away in the kitchen.

The kettle was empty. He refilled it and set it back on the burner over the flame. John called for Roger, telling him it was his turn. Roger forwent it in favour of watching the water heat. The mundanity of staring into the shiny metal of his and Freddie’s kettle and wondering how hot the water inside was, was much preferable to sitting on the ground and listening to Freddie regale them all with tales of his and Mary’s sex life, something Roger liked to pretend didn’t exist at all.

Eventually the water heated up and Roger refilled his cup, throwing in the first teabag he saw. He and Freddie used to like milk and sugar before they stopped being able to afford it so they were back to just straight tea. Which meant Roger had nothing left to do in the kitchen, no excuse for skipping out on the conversation.

He reluctantly trudged back into the living room and sat with a deep aching sigh in his spot on the floor. The conversation had long shifted, they were miles away from where they had been. Talking about the new albums they’d all been listening to, John mentioned something about building an amp, Freddie mentioned something about new stage clothes, Brian mentioned something about the teaching job he’d tentatively started. But Roger was still hung up on the idea of him and Mary.

It was childish, he knew, to let his own strange feelings for Freddie make him unable to enjoy his happiness. He knew that. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to fill her shoes. And he was sure he could do a better job than her. Deep down he was still at least mostly sure that Freddie wanted someone more like him and less like her in the most literal sense. And he’d much rather be heartbroken watching Freddie fall in love with a man than be heartbroken watching him fall in love with a lie.

“It’s your turn, Rog,” said Brian as he nudged him.

Roger blinked, breaking out of his own thoughts, and laughed at himself for getting lost in them. “Sorry I was miles away.”

“You’re miles away a lot lately,” said John. He hadn’t meant anything by it, just something he’d noticed Roger was sure, but he still blushed as if John knew the whole story and was jabbing at him for it.

“Yeah I think I’m getting sick,” said Roger.

“Not too sick to play, I hope,” said Freddie.

Roger smirked halfheartedly and shook his head as he put a few Scrabble tiles down. He stopped caring about the points long ago and now he barely cared if he formed a word.

Though he put on his most convincing air of nonchalance, John was still staring at him the rest of the game. Watching where his eyes went and watching how he moved. Roger didn’t know what he was looking for exactly but he hoped he hadn’t let on to anything.

The surveillance stopped when Brian suggested heading down a few blocks to the pub once the game ended. Roger popped up at the idea, eager to have a drink and eager to be in a smokey, dimly lit environment where he could melt into the background.

~~~

“It’s your round, Fred,” said John.

Freddie sat across from Roger in the booth, both of them leaning against the wall and making faces at each other when their eyes met. John was pressed up against Roger, the only booth left had been a bit too small for two and a bit too big for one.

“Alright, let’s go,” said Freddie to Brian.

“I’m not buying your round—” began Brian.

“I’ve only got two hands,” said Freddie dramatically as he pushed Brian out of the booth. “But if you’d like to help me pay you’re more than welcome.”

Freddie hurried off to the bar and after a few beats of indecision Brian went with him. Roger couldn’t help giggle at the way Freddie could so easily get the best of Brian, and he heard John chuckle too.

“Funny how they are,” said John through a laugh. “I guess we’re all like that with Freddie though.”

“You think?” said Roger, cocking his head and looking at John.

“Sure, we all trust him more than ourselves sometimes, he’s just got that way about him I guess.”

“He can be a right idiot too, though,” said Roger.

“He’s still human,” said John, pushing his shoulder against Roger’s. “And if he goes off with Mary for the holidays, you can come to mine, I know Brian already offered but…”

“Oh,” said Roger, a little caught off guard, “you don’t have to do that, I’ll be alright.”

“Will you?” said John. “A good four days alone while Freddie’s off with Mary. You’d be alright?”

Roger pressed himself against the wall, getting as far from John as he could while he was pinned into the booth. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Here we are!” said Freddie as Brian set down all four pints. “My knight in shining armor carried them all the way here for us, isn’t he a doll?”

Brian rolled his eyes through a smile and slide the pint glasses around the table for the four of them before he slid back into the booth with Freddie. Roger wanted to drag John out and set the record straight, but for all he knew John was innocently hinting at Roger’s extroversion, his dislike of solitude, or something similarly innocuous. Implying he wouldn’t be able to cook for himself, or something. And even though he knew John had no way of knowing, his hand shook as he raised the pint to his lips.

~~~

“Goodnight!” said Freddie as he and Roger split from John. Brian lived the opposite direction and said goodnight at the pub door. Poor John had a ways to go.

“Night!” replied John as he crossed the street.

“Poor thing, I wish he would let us drive him home, I’m sober enough,” sighed Freddie.

“You’re a shit driver even when you’ve not had four pints, you’d crash,” teased Roger.

“Well if you hadn’t ended the night with that whiskey you could’ve driven him,” said Freddie.

“He’s a big boy, he can make it home.”

Freddie sighed and took a step into Roger, walking as close to him as he could as they meandered down the street, the night air forgivingly warm. Roger wondered what Freddie might do if he threaded their arms together, for a laugh or whatever excuse he could come up with. Wondered what he’d do if he put an arm around his waist, or tried to hold his hand.

“You’re so quiet,” said Freddie. “Not feeling sick are you?”

“A little,” replied Roger.

“Mm,” hummed Freddie before he looped his arm around Roger’s and held on tight. Roger didn’t bother hiding his smile as they rounded the corner for their flat. For once in his life he wished they lived a little further from the pub.

“There you are!” called a shrill voice from their stairwell. Before Roger could make out who it was, Freddie had ripped himself from Roger’s side and rushed up the stairs to meet her.

“Darling, what’re you doing here, did I forget any plans—” began Freddie as he kissed Mary hello.

“No no, you didn’t forget anything, I’ve just left my keys here last night, I didn’t realise it ’til my roommate left for the weekend,” said Mary. Roger made his way to the bottom of the steps, Mary looked down at him with a mixture of indifference and dislike, which was how Roger looked at her. “Hi, Rog.”

“Hi.”

A silence echoed in the stairwell as the two of them looked at each other with equal distain. Roger knew why he hated her, but could never figure out why she hated him back.

“Wow,” deadpanned Freddie, “so chatty. A real couple of fishwives.”

“I’m tired,” said Roger at the same time as Mary said, “I’m not feeling well.”

Freddie sighed and made for their door. “Well as long as you both have excuses.”

Roger wanted to get on with Mary for Freddie’s sake. He knew having his best friend and his girlfriend be unable to hold a conversation that didn’t turn into a petty fight was stressful. And he knew that it couldn’t last, that he’d have to choose and he’d have to choose Mary. Girlfriend trumped best friend. So he wanted to make nice, truly he did, but he knew Mary didn’t care to as she’d never lose Freddie. Which made her that much more unbearable.

“I can’t stay long, I’ve got to be up early,” said Mary.

“Oh what a shame,” said Roger with too much of a smile. Freddie muttered something Roger didn’t care to listen to and stormed off to his room with Mary in tow. Roger did the same, slamming his bedroom door before he tore his shoes off, threw his jacket off, and looked for something to break.

When he found nothing he fell back onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. Part of him listening intently for any sign that Freddie and Mary were after each other, another part of him desperate to just fall asleep and skip the whole thing. It sounded insane, it sounded almost paranoid, but Roger truly felt that Mary was loudest when Roger was home just to spite him, just to prove her superior claim to Freddie.

~~~

Roger laid awake, his eyes focused intently on the ceiling pattern, a full hour had gone by with no sign of Mary’s usual screams and cries. He heard the hall flooring creak, the front door open, and the hall floor creak again.

“Rog, are you asleep?” said Freddie on the other side of his door.

“No,” said Roger, just barely loud enough for Freddie to hear.

His door swung open, Freddie let it slam against the wall. Roger propped himself up on his elbows, not quiet committing to sitting up just yet, and eyed Freddie in the doorway. He thought he might be mad or upset with Roger for being less than friendly to Mary yet again. But he didn’t look like he was preparing to lecture Roger, he looked expectant almost, like a parent checking in on a child who’d been sent to their room for the night.

“Well?” said Freddie.

“Well what?” spat Roger.

“Do you have anything to say to me?” said Freddie with a bit more bite.

“What the fuck would I say to you, Fred?” said Roger with as light of a tone as he could muster.

“You don’t think maybe you should apologise for treating Mary like shit for no fucking reason?!” screamed Freddie. “She’s my girlfriend, you know I love her and—”

“She’s a bitch, Freddie!” screamed Roger as he sat up. “She only likes you ‘cause of who you’ll become!”

“That’s not true!”

“And you only like her ‘cause in your head she means you’re _normal!”_ shouted Roger. Part of him regretted it, but most of him was glad he’d said it. He’d hinted at the idea before sure, but outright saying it was almost cathartic, it would’ve been even more so had Freddie not immediately stormed off, unwilling to listen.

He wanted to be indignant and hardheaded and leave Freddie to his own devices, he knew he was right, he knew Mary was a way for Freddie to perpetuate a well told lie. But the idea of Freddie, alone in his room sulking and thinking the worst of himself, calling himself a freak, an abomination, it softened Roger enough that he padded his way down the short hall to Freddie’s bedroom. His door was cracked and Roger pushed it the rest of the way open.

“Go away,” said Freddie quietly. He was perched on the end of his bed. He turned away from Roger, hiding the few stray tears running down his cheeks and the splotchy red skin that came with them.

Roger didn’t listen to his quiet plea to be left alone and instead sat on the end of his bed with him. He stayed quiet for a moment and felt Freddie’s thigh against his own, pressed his knee up to Freddie’s, pressed their shoulders together.

“I’m sorry,” said Roger. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes you did,” said Freddie.

“Okay, I meant it but I was too harsh,” said Roger. “Fred, I think you’re hurting yourself with her. I know you told me to forget it but you said as much that night, you said you never loved Mary, you said you couldn’t love her—”

“What’s your point?” said Freddie, turning to him with teary eyes. “What do you want me to do? I’m trying to make it work and you’re constantly reminding me that it can’t.”

“Because I want you to be happy,” said Roger.

“I am,” said Freddie.

“Are you?” said Roger as he covered Freddie’s hand, that was gripping his thigh trying to stifle the tears, with his own. “Look at me, Freddie.”

Freddie took a deep, shaky breath and looked up at Roger. The tears rimming his eyes fell down his cheeks where Roger brushed them away, his hands gentle against Freddie’s skin. He brushed his hair back, away from his face, and tucked it behind his ear. His thumb brushed over the soft skin of his cheek as his hand came to rest against his face. And when he leaned in, he moved slow, giving him enough time to pull away, but he never did. He kissed him light at first, waiting to see if Freddie would send him out. When he didn’t, Roger kissed him again, with more force more need, and felt Freddie reciprocate desperately.

And when he felt Freddie’s tongue moving with his own he shuddered and held onto him tight. And unbuttoned his shirt, bit by bit, skipping buttons and moving back up to get them while Freddie tugged his shirt out of his waistband. Roger ran his hands over Freddie’s chest, feeling every undulation every definition of his muscles and heard him shudder in the brief moments they broke away from each other for short gasps of air. Roger sloppily dragged his lips across Freddie’s jaw, moving down his neck, lingering at his collar bones.

He kept his pace, slowly descending Freddie’s lithe body, kissing down his chest, lingering at his nipple, dragging his tongue across his soft belly and biting gently just to get him to hiss, all while slowly drifting off the bed and falling to his knees. He kissed and nipped at Freddie’s hips where he could and tugged his buckle loose. Freddie’s hand carded through Roger’s hair, his long fingers scratching his scalp but still shaking just enough for Roger to notice.

Roger palmed his cock through his trousers before undoing his zip and tugging down his trousers and pants in a few awkward motions. Roger hoped the fear in him wasn’t visible. He’d never sucked a cock before, he’d never even touched one that wasn’t his own and Freddie’s didn’t look like it was for beginners.

“It’s big,” said Roger, his words got caught in his throat.

“You don’t have to,” said Freddie, his hand in Roger’s hair becoming more comforting as Roger nervously stroked him.

“I want to,” said Roger. He tentatively ran his tongue down Freddie, getting a feel for it, listening to Freddie hold his breath. “I want to so bad.”

Freddie whined, a whine that got caught in his throat when Roger wrapped his lips around the head of his cock. It already felt big, and Roger knew he wouldn’t get it as deep as Freddie wanted it but hoped his hand would be enough. Freddie pulled his hair, light and quick, an involuntary motion as Roger bobbed his head. He couldn’t go very deep, not without gagging, but the way Freddie sounded, it was clear he didn’t need to go much deeper. He didn’t mind the taste, the salty heat of Freddie’s cock on his tongue. And though he knew there was a chance the whiskey was numbing his sensitivities, he was sure nothing about Freddie could’ve bothered him. Not his size, not his taste, not the way he clutched Roger’s hair the closer he got.

“Almost,” choked Freddie. It was only seconds of warning before he came in Roger’s mouth. He wasn’t sure what he expected but the consistency, the heat, threw Roger. He swallowed harsh and desperate, trying not to cough, trying not to let his eyes water. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Roger, his voice hoarse, his mouth dry. Freddie took his hand when he reached out for help back up on the bed. His legs shook from kneeling so long and gave out just as he sat down. “Can I kiss you?”

Freddie answered by meeting their lips, not concerned with tasting himself on Roger. Roger reached across Freddie’s lap and took his hand, guiding it across their thighs and onto his clothed cock. Freddie rubbed him through his trousers, a few strokes with heavy pressure, and then pulled back. His hands, left Roger’s cock and waist, his lips broke from Roger’s and his eyes averted.

“Go to bed,” said Freddie under his breath.

“What?” whispered Roger.

“We’re drunk,” said Freddie.

“I’m not drunk,” replied Roger, “I know you’re not either—”

“We’re drunk and this is a mistake,” said Freddie, meeting his eyes.

“Freddie,” said Roger, desperately.

“I’m sorry, Rog,” said Freddie, his hand falling on Roger’s pressed into the duvet.

“Is it me?” said Roger. “You like men but you don’t like me—”

“What—No it’s nothing like that. I just, I can’t do this,” said Freddie.

“Why not?” said Roger a bit pathetically even to his own ears.

“I love Mary,” said Freddie, looking Roger dead in the eyes as he lied, never breaking his gaze.

“No you don’t,” said Roger. Freddie didn’t argue. He let Roger nearly break his door off the hinge swinging it open as he stormed out.

Roger grabbed his coat, grabbed his keys and hurried out the door with no destination in mind. It was dark, the streetlamps were dim and scarce but he didn’t need them to pace. He moved around their block, going in figure eights through the alleys and buildings just wanting to keep moving so he could stop thinking. The frustration, the sadness, the anger, it welled in him and only constant motion kept it from spilling over.

Eventually he stopped and pressed himself against the worn brick of a tight alley, on one end was the main road, at the other end the back of a different flat block. He was sheltered from the wind though there wasn’t much, and he was sheltered from any prying eyes watching him pace through their windows. Alone and desperate to get away from his own thoughts.

Freddie was going to keep on with Mary, going to phase Roger out entirely, going to go on leading a lie of a life. If Roger wanted any part of his company he’d have to happily bounce Freddie’s children on his knee one day, have to make nice with Mary while she made no effort to do the same. Roger never minded his feelings, they were off-putting at first, confusing and embarrassing, but when he was with Freddie everything fell into place. How could Freddie sacrifice that comfort, that sense of purpose for something like Mary. Roger didn’t have a Mary, didn’t have someone he was letting down, didn’t have a family that gave two shits about him, didn’t have the public eye watching and waiting for a confession. He knew it wasn’t as simple as he wished it were, but Freddie made it worse, Freddie hurt him worse for the sake of not making any waves.

He wanted to keep walking, to distract himself from his racing mind, but the path he took had grown so monotonous it failed to distract him. So he thought of the only thing that might get his mind somewhere calmer. He thought about the erection Freddie left him with and though it’d mostly faded, he thought he might get it back. In the public privacy of the alley he stroked himself, closed his eyes, used his left hand, pretended Freddie was breathing his name in his ear. He didn’t worry about being caught just focused on chasing the orgasm he’d hoped to have with Freddie. And when he came across the brick of the opposite wall any comfort he felt in his fantasy was ripped from him.

As he put his cock away and mussed the streaks of come on the wall with his shoe, he’d never felt lower, more pathetic, more alone, and less significant. He couldn’t find it in himself to cry, he didn’t deserve that catharsis. He walked back to his flat with the shame of his outburst weighing on him, mocking him almost. He unlocked their flat and hung his jacket up and shuffled to his room, wanting nothing more than to fall on his mattress and forget it all happened.

“Roger,” said Freddie from the kitchen. Roger, mere feet from the safety of his room turned to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

Roger sighed, defeated. “No, I’m sorry. Let’s just…”

“Forget it?” said Freddie with a misplaced smirk.

“You read my mind,” said Roger hoping the shake in his voice wasn’t obvious as he opened his door and slammed it shut.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! It’s been a little while since I updated but this chapter was rather long and I redid it a few times. I hope you all like it, please comment if you do! I love the comments!! <33

** 1971 - August **

“You look fine, _let’s go_ ,” said Roger in Freddie’s doorway. They were supposed to be meeting Brian and John for drinks down the pub but at the rate Freddie was changing his outfits they’d never make it before last call. Roger watched Freddie inspect himself in the mirror and tried not to look too close as he did his turns.

“Does this go?” said Freddie.

“Does what go?” groaned Roger.

“The whole thing? Does any of this go?”

“It all works very well together now let’s get a move on,” said Roger.

“If I get laughed out of the pub it’s on you.” Freddie fluffed his hair once more in the mirror before shooing Roger out and following him down the hall. Roger stuffed his keys into his pocket while Freddie locked their door with his own set and they headed out. The pub, their usual pub, had lost it’s charm in the months prior. If they wanted to hype their band up or get plenty of free pints courtesy of the students in there who were fans, they went. But if they wanted to have a night with each other, and maybe a few more anonymous people, they had to drive.

“Promise you’ll be okay to drive back?” said Freddie as he climbed in the passengers seat.

“I promise,” said Roger with an eye roll as he started their van. He pulled out of their spot on the street and tried desperately to remember the directions Brian gave them to the new place he wanted to try. He knew the street name Brian ended with but not any of the street names leading up to it.

“Lost are you?” said Freddie with a grin.

“How could you tell?” said Roger.

“You’re waiting for a stop sign to turn green, you seem a little distracted,” said Freddie. “Bodes well for you being able to get us home.”

“Oh hush, I wrote the directions down it’s in the glove compartment,” said Roger.

He reached over for it as Freddie did, both headed for the same latch of the glove compartment, and when their hands brushed they both flinched, both in big motions, both embarrassed to have reacted at all.

They never spoke of it, like it was an unforgivable sin what they’d done. That night was something they agreed had just never happened, something that they decided in silence was of no consequence. But whether or not they wanted to let it change their friendship, Roger sucked him off. They could both pretend the feelings Roger confessed to were drunken ramblings, a mistake. But nothing could lessen the weight of Freddie’s cock in his mouth. It hung between them and kept them at arms length of each other, neither wanting to let on that they were thinking of that night.

“Mary’s coming, should be anyway,” said Freddie.

“How nice,” said Roger through clenched teeth.

“I’m warning you now so you can lock the door on any unkind words you have for her,” said Freddie.

“I’m nothing but cordial to that woman,” said Roger. The radio drowned out the silence that followed, only broken occasionally by Freddie giving Roger directions until they pulled into the carpark. Freddie jumped out and had a few feet lead on Roger as they walked in and kept their eyes down looking for their table. They weren’t famous, not amongst regular folk, but on the off chance some students who’d seen their performances were there they didn’t want an audience.

John and Brian had a booth and looked relieved to see Roger and Freddie after a night of promising groups of people that others were coming to fill the booth with them.

“Finally!” said John. “Brian it’s your round.”

Brian clapped them on the backs as a hello as he passed to get to the bar. Freddie slid in next to John and Roger sat in Brian’s place.

“What took you so long?” grumbled John into his pint.

“Princess was getting ready,” said Roger.

“And don’t I look wonderful?” teased Freddie, John could only roll his eyes with his mouth full of lager. “Mary’s coming by with Chrissie later on, you think they can squeeze and fit here?”

“I could always just leave and make room for her,” said Roger.

“If you’re gonna start, I’m leaving,” said Freddie.

“It was a joke Fred,” said Roger, though both knew it wasn’t. It wasn’t necessarily that Roger disliked Mary any _more_ since he’d nearly had Freddie, but Freddie was more aware of the little jabs he couldn’t stop himself making. Maybe he was letting them slip more too. Before Roger had wanted nothing more than for Freddie to leave room in his life for him even if that meant keeping Mary around. But getting so close only to be rejected again by a man in deep denial had a lingering sting he hadn’t shaken just yet.

“Alright,” Brian set the pints down and threatened to sit on Roger if he wouldn’t scoot down.

“Chrissie’s coming later,” said Freddie. “You two serious or?”

Brian shrugged. “Hard to tell with her, I think we are though.”

“You know,” said Roger between sips, “you are allowed to ask her. You don’t get points off.”

“I’m holding out that she’ll say something to make it even more clear,” said Brian.

“What like? Do you think she’ll propose?” laughed Roger. Brian lazily swatted his arm. He liked to pretend he was constantly annoyed with both him and Freddie but they all knew he loved having them, even if they got under his skin, and he couldn’t conceal the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh there they are,” said Brian, eyeing the front door and offering a meek little wave to get their attention.

Roger could feel his pulse quicken at the idea of sitting down with Mary. He’d seen her in passing since the incident, but he hadn’t spoken to her, hadn’t even looked her in the eye. The most interaction he had with her was listening to her moan through Freddie’s wall.

He downed more of his pint while Freddie kissed her hello and squeezed her into the booth next to him. Brian shoved Roger further into the wall to do the same for Chrissie.

“Hello all,” said Mary in her deceiving singsong voice. “Roger.”

“Mary,” said Roger with his jaw tight. The tension between them kept the table quiet for a few beats of awkward silence.

“Well, I need a drink,” said Chrissie, graciously cutting the air and dragging Mary off to the bar with her.

Roger decided then to stay quiet most of the night. Mary would be looking for any opportunity to catch him out, to corner him into saying something unkind to her so she could tell Freddie and drive a wedge between them. Roger was determined not to go for the bait. She playfully teased him about his hair, his clothes, made a mention of a song Freddie told her he was writing. All seemingly innocent jabs that the others didn’t look twice at, jabs that got lost in the conversation, but Roger knew she meant them and refused to be provoked into saying anything but meaningless kind words.

“Your round, Rog,” said Brian. Roger was coming up on hour two of dealing with Mary’s snide comments about him or about how in love she and Freddie were and was well overdue for a break. He jumped as Brian and Chrissie scooted out of the booth to set him free, and hurried to the bar.

The night had grown dark and the line for the barman was both nebulous and enormous. Roger stood as close to the bar as he could and thanked whatever divine beings he could think of for the long wait. A few full minutes alone, away from Mary.

“Roger.” A bony hand tapped his shoulder. And though he knew it was Mary, knew it was her voice, part of him still had hope it was a fan bothering him as he turned around to see Mary’s short frame glaring up at him.

“What is it?” said Roger with a fake grin.

“I don’t want lager,” said Mary.

“Pale ale?” offered Roger as if he was planning on actually getting her the drink she wanted.

“I know what happened,” said Mary.

“What?” said Roger with a nervous laugh. Mary just grinned at him, her eyes still wide and innocent.

“I know what you did. Freddie told me the whole thing,” said Mary. “He told me you came crawling to him, crying telling him how jealous you are of me, how you sucked him off—”

“Keep your voice down,” spat Roger.

“We haven’t got a real chance to speak since then, but I want you to know there are no hard feelings,” said Mary.

“The fuck’s that mean?” said Roger. His anxiety started to get the better of him. How could Freddie tell her, how could he warp the truth for her like that, how could he tell Mary but not let Roger know she knew. And what was her point, why had she left the table to let him know.

“It means Freddie and I are happy,” said Mary. “He doesn’t mind that you’re a faggot of course. Doesn’t effect him. Though I know you wish it did.” Mary faked a bit of sympathy and put a hand on his shoulder. Roger, a bit too shaken and caught off guard, took a few seconds before smacking her hand away.

“Go back to the table,” spat Roger.

“Aw,” said Mary with a little laugh, her voice still light and airy and nonchalant, holding none of the weight of her words, “did I upset you? Did you think he might actually want you as well?” Roger’s silence was damning and Mary’s laughter was ear piercing.

“Fuck you,” said Roger.

“Fuck me?” said Mary, her innocent facade starting to crack. “Fuck me? You’re the one who begged to suck my boyfriends cock, you’re the one who got him all confused!”

“Keep your voice down,” spat Roger.

“What?” said Mary. “You afraid of your friends knowing what a piece of shit you, what a homewrecking arsehole you are?!”

“You really think I confused him? You really think _I_ did that?” said Roger, lowering himself, getting in her face as much as he she was getting in his.

“Rog!” called Brian from the table. “Fred, they’re getting into it again!”

“What’re you going to do?” said Mary in Roger’s face. “Hit me? You think that’ll make Freddie swoon? You think that’ll prove that you’re not one of the push over fruits, you’re a _real man_ about your cock sucking?”

He couldn’t hit her, he knew he couldn’t hit her. And though he knew he shouldn’t touch her at all he couldn’t resist shoving her. One good hard push, making her stumble back and exaggerate how off kilter she was. She fell, conveniently, against one of the bigger men near her, bumbling into him until he turned to catch her.

“D’you just push ‘er?” grumbled some man much bigger than Roger.

“He did,” said Mary with tears in her eyes as she found her balance with the arm of the stranger.

“You get off on pushin’ women ‘cause you look like one?” said one of his friends.

Roger wasn’t much good in a fight, he’d only been in a few and never won one. He never felt it a skill he’d like to have, fighting, even in his younger years, felt immature and a type of masculine that he wasn’t. But right then, with two taller men glaring and laughing at him he wished he had it in him.

“He’s drunk he’s drunk,” said Brian as he bounded his way between Roger and Mary. He put a hand on Roger’s chest and muttered apologies to the man, to Mary. To fucking Mary, who looked over Brian’s shoulder with her big round wet eyes and faked it. Faked the fear of him, faked the fall, faked the comfort Brian thought she was giving him.

“Fuck you, Mary,” spat Roger, the beers doing his thinking for him.

“Roger,” snapped Brian.

“Roger, I was trying to be nice,” said Mary, wiping fake tears.

“Like fuck you were!” screamed Roger.

“Not my fault you’re a faggot, Rog, I was trying to be nice!” screamed Mary.

“What?” muttered Brian, along with much of the pub. Over the low rumble of the pub whispering about Roger, the barman asked the three of them to take it outside before they were kicked out.

“I’ll leave, I’ll fucking leave! Don’t you worry about it Mary, _I’ll_ leave!” said Roger. He stumbled a few times on his own feet trying to get to the coat rack with his jacket pinned on it somewhere under everyone else’s. The relative silence in the pub was deafening as everyone watched him throw jackets around willy nilly looking for his own. Everyone’s poorly concealed stares boring into his back until finally he found his jacket, found his cigarettes, and found the door.

Freddie had their keys, Freddie also had the directions home. Roger had eight dollars in his pocket, he’d left his wallet in the car, and no way to get home. So he took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long relaxing drag off it. He leaned against the cold stone wall of the pub and stared blankly ahead of him at the ripples in the storm drain puddles. His mind started to numb out all of what Mary said, all of what Freddie might say to him later, and instead focused on trying to remember which train he needed to take home.

He flinched when the pub door opened again, worried that one of the burly men was out to kick the cocksucker out of him. But his mind calmed when he could make out John’s frame against the light beaming from the inside.

“Oh hi,” said Roger, nonchalantly. “Havin’ a smoke.”

“I can see that,” said John as he took baby steps towards Roger. “You alright?”

“What could be wrong?”

“Don’t talk if you don’t want to.” John took a step into him, one foot between Roger’s, and took the cigarette from his lips and pressed it to his own, inhaling the smoke deep before giving Roger his cigarette back. “Brian said I ought to take you home.”

“What’d Freddie say?” said Roger.

“He and Mary went off, had a chat at the bar, got her a drink to calm her down,” said John.

“I should go apologise right?” said Roger. “Come crawling back on my knees begging for forgiveness from that cunt, shouldn’t I?”

“Come on, Rog,” said John as he pulled him off the wall, “let’s get you home.”

Roger sighed and pushed himself off the wall as John took his arm and tugged him in the direction of his car. He fell into John’s passenger seat and sank into it as deep as he could while John started the engine.

“Freddie has my keys,” said Roger once they hit their first traffic light.

“You can stay at mine,” said John. Roger tried to flick the radio on, tried to tune them to any station that wasn’t playing the shit John liked, but as soon as Roger cranked the volume John shut it off entirely. Roger looked up at him expectantly, guiltily. “Rog, you can’t do this.”

“I can change the station back—” began Roger.

“You can’t do this to Freddie. He loves Mary, he loves you. You’re making him choose and you know he can’t do that,” said John.

“She started it,” said Roger.

“Fuck off with that, she came over to change her drink order, next thing we see you’re shoving her into a group of strangers, yelling back and forth—”

“That’s not why she came over,” slurred Roger.

“Enlighten me then, dickhead,” spat John.

“She—” began Roger, though he immediately cut himself off, “it’s a long story.”

“I’ve got the time,” said John.

“Swear this stays in the car,” said Roger, his palms starting to sweat already.

“On my life,” said John, only barely paying attention as he navigated the streets.

“I sucked Freddie off,” said Roger. He felt the brakes pump as John fumbled with the clutch and got a grip on the car once again, about the reaction Roger expected.

“You…” said John.

“That’s why she called me a faggot,” said Roger. “She didn’t come over to order her drink, she came over to tell me Freddie loved her and to call me a cocksucker.”

“Okay,” said John. His voice was even and calm but his eyes were wide and darting as he pulled into the little driveway of his flat. He turned off the engine and stared straight ahead. Roger waited for him to wrap his head around it, waited for all of the information to settle in, and when it did he turned to Roger with sympathetic eyes and said nothing but, “let’s go inside.”

~~~

John got him another drink, Roger needed it, and he sat on John’s bed while John sat in his desk chair and Roger downloaded everything he’d held back. The New Year’s party, the strange thoughts, the kiss, the weird confessions Freddie kept giving him about Mary, and finally the blowjob. And John didn’t flinch for any of it, he sat quiet, interjecting only when he was confused, and sipped his drink while Roger went on and on.

“And I don’t know anymore, Deaks, he keeps telling me he doesn’t love her he doesn’t want her and then when I try to,” Roger gestured at nothing, “show him that he has someone to fall back on he just doubles down. I guess it’s me—”

“Oh please,” said John with a snort.

“What’s so funny?” spat Roger.

“That you think Freddie isn’t dying to fuck you,” said John.

“If he were he would’ve done it already,” said Roger. “In case you weren’t paying attention, _he_ has been rejecting _me_ over and over again.”

“But has he?” said John.

“Yes,” said Roger, slowly and pointedly. “In his rendition of when I blew him to Mary he said I begged and pleaded with him, that I was pathetic. Why would he say that if he wanted me?”

“Why would he tell his girlfriend that the guy who sucked him off was begging him to do it? That’s a real head scratcher, Roger, you’ve really got me there,” said John with a hint of a smirk on his face. “I don’t know about you, but if one of my best friends tried to suck my cock and I didn’t want them to, it wouldn’t be all that hard to stop it. Sure you were both a little drunk but, if I right now tried to suck you off you wouldn’t let me do it out of courtesy to me. He let you kiss him and blow him, but he’s obviously still struggling and lying to Mary about it,” said John.

“With what? Struggling with what?” groaned Roger. “I mean, fuck, Deaks, I’m putting myself out there for him, I’m doing all the hard work all he has to do is take and _he won’t_.”

“It’s not just you he’s worried about,” said John. “Aren’t you worried about what people will say, what people will do to you? The band? Your parents? Your friends? And he’s got Mary to deal with on top of it all.”

“So what?” said Roger. “Fuck my parents, fuck the band, fuck my friends—”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” said Roger, a smile threatened to break across his face. “I don’t, I don’t care what people think I just want…”

“But you’re Roger Taylor,” said John.

“Oh I am?” deadpanned Roger.

“You’ve been popular since your growth spurt. You’re blond haired, blue eyed, gorgeous, talented, easy to talk to,” said John.

“You’re making me blush,” teased Roger.

“And you know what Freddie is? A shy person, someone who’s constantly had to fight to fit in, he changed his fucking name for it. He’s not like you, people don’t naturally flock to him, naturally love him, he’s worked for that. It keeps him safe, and maybe he plays around with men sometimes but he’s ‘with Mary’, he’s ‘normal’, and no one can say otherwise.”

Roger said nothing, he knew John was right but he didn’t have to like it. Maybe Freddie’s clinging to Mary, clinging to the delusion that he liked women was less about struggling to accept himself and more about fearing the world that had always struggled to accept him.

“He wants what you want but honestly it’s better for your friendship, for our band, and for Freddie’s sanity if you let it pass.” John downed the rest of his drink. “As his friend you have to be somewhere safe for him and you can’t be safe for him if you’re pressuring him to uproot his identity.”

Roger took the last sip of the whiskey. “I know,” he muttered. He set the drink next to him on the bed and tugged at the loose threads in the seams of his jacket sleeves. John sighed, deep and tired, they were getting into the wee hours of the night. He stood, stretched and walked to his bed, flopping down next to Roger.

“I’m sorry,” said John, pressing his shoulder to Roger’s. “Really I am.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. He put most of his weight on John and John held him up.

~~~

They had a gig the next night which worked out well for Roger. His keys were with Freddie, his flat was across town, and he had a nagging feeling that everyone except John was at very least annoyed with him for causing such a scene the night before.

So he spent his morning with John. John didn’t say much to him, didn’t act like anything was going on and Roger could never tell him how much he appreciated that. He didn’t want to be a sideshow, he didn’t want John eyeing him and imagining all sorts. He was grateful for the indifference, the silence, but he couldn’t tell him without breaking the spell of both. So he ate his toast and drank his coffee in the comforting quiet of the kitchen.

And he mulled over what he might say to Freddie later on. Wondered if Freddie would even listen. He wanted to be what Freddie needed and that wasn’t a boyfriend. He needed someone there, with him, waiting to catch him with no conditions. And Roger knew he could be that person, knew he should’ve been in the first place. He had feelings for Freddie, but Freddie wasn’t ready to hear them, much less to act on them. If he needed to put them away to make Freddie feel a little more at ease in his own skin, he didn’t mind it. He just hoped Freddie would hear him out. Hoped Mary hadn’t got to him first.

Driving to the gig in John’s car was unsettling, it almost felt like bad luck to travel to and from gigs in anything but his trusty van. He kept feeling the urge to look back and make sure his cymbals weren’t resting on the drumheads. But once they’d pulled into the carpark and once Roger saw Brian and Freddie sitting against the bumper waiting for the two of them, he felt both more relaxed and more nervous.

“For once you’re on time, Fred,” said John as he climbed out of his car.

“Don’t congratulate me too much, Brian told me the gig started later than it did and Roger wasn’t there to prove him wrong,” said Freddie with a laugh.

“Just start lying to both of them,” said John to Brian.

“Oh please don’t give them that idea, they’ll start showing up even later if they think we’re constantly lying,” said Brian. “Now come on, I’m not going to carry these in alone.”

Roger helped the three of them carry his drums in. His comments to any of them were kept light and unaccommodating to conversation. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Brian to pull him aside and yell at him, for Freddie to give him the cold shoulder. And when neither happened he felt a strange sense of guilt, as if they weren’t mad because they expected that kind of behaviour.

He played good, better than usual, but never up to his standards. The four of them hung around for a drink or two, talking about nothing in particular before getting their pay for the night and loading up the van again. They didn’t have to bother making pockets of room for John and Freddie since John drove and Brian decided he’d rather just ride with him.

“I’m no good at it,” said Freddie as he handed Roger the keys to the van.

Roger smiled weakly but wasn’t sure Freddie looked at him long enough to notice. He unlocked the doors and turned the engine over. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel in the silence between them. He had his speech prepared, he was ready to begin at the beginning and go on for how ever many rambling paragraphs and pages he’s mentally written. He was ready for the poetry he’d concocted earlier, ready to really wow Freddie with how self aware, how apologetic he was.

“I…Sorry,” said Roger.

“What?” said Freddie, a laugh bubbling up in him.

“ _I’m_ sorry. For everything that happened last night,” said Roger, his eyes stayed glued to the road. Their route was punishingly short and Roger knew he didn’t have much time before they’d be pulling up to their flat and he’d have to look at Freddie. “I’m your friend, your best friend, you don’t need me getting into catfights with your girlfriend. I’m sorry, it’ll never happen again. I swear on my life and yours, I’m going to get on with Mary.”

“Oh,” said Freddie.

“Oh what?” said Roger as he pretended not to notice the available strip of pavement where he could’ve parked and instead began to circle the block.

“I don’t know,” said Freddie. “I didn’t—park there, Rog—there’s a spot _right there_ , what’re you doing?”

“Must’ve missed it,” sighed Roger as he backed up to park in the spot he hoped he’d avoid. Roger was an expert parallel parker of the van where most could barely get it into third gear and he could feel Freddie’s eyes on him as he slowly eased the van into the small open space.

“I uh,” said Freddie after Roger’d put the van in park and shut the engine off. “I didn’t expect an apology from you is all.” With that he opened and shut his car door and waited on the curb for Roger to hop out and join him.

“What’s?” began Roger before opening his door. He quickly realised his mistake and jumped out to meet him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Freddie shrugged, his hands deep in his jacket pockets. “Felt two sided, that’s all.”

Roger stared, not bothering to hide his confusion, and watched as Freddie left him behind and headed up the stairs to their little flat. Roger followed and made it up to him just as he unlocked the locks.

“Two sided?” said Roger, closing their front door behind him.

Freddie nodded and kicked his shoes off before settling on the far end of the couch. Roger, still in a daze, settled on the opposite end of their little couch. Not much room lay between them but it was the most they could leave on such a short little loveseat.

“I pushed her,” said Roger.

“I know,” said Freddie. He sighed deep and almost frustrated, as if he hoped they might skip over this conversation altogether. “I know, but she told me…what she said to you.”

“Oh? She told the truth for once?” said Roger with a laugh before cutting himself off abruptly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

“Well,” said Freddie ignoring his apology, “I’m sorry I told her, I’m sure you didn’t want her to know something so…” His words got lost and he finished the thought off with a vague gesture of his hand.

“Why did you tell her?” said Roger. “And why did you tell her all of that about me…begging and…”

“All the lies?” said Freddie with an unhappy laugh, he curled his legs under himself and began fiddling with the bracelet on his left wrist. “I didn’t mean to tell her. I was drunk and she asked about you and I just blurted it out. I figured I could save it if I said we were pissed and you were begging me. She didn’t like that much though either.”

“She asked about me?” said Roger. He found that odd mostly because when he and Freddie were together he made a point of directing the conversation _away_ from Mary if he ever felt they got to close.

“That’s the other…thing here,” said Freddie, he rested a hand on his forehead and let it slide down to massage his temple. “She hates you not because you’re so…whatever you think it is, she hates you because twice now I’ve said your name in bed.”

“Oh.” Roger hoped the blush wasn’t visible, though he could tell from the embarrassed smirk on Freddie’s face that it was.

“I’m sorry, darling,” said Freddie, his attention turned and focused on a loose thread in the upholstery. “I…It’s awful I know—”

“Why’s it awful?” Hours earlier, hell, _minutes_ earlier, Roger was patting himself on the back for being such a good friend. For being so noble as to put his own feelings aside to become Freddie’s support system while he dealt with his sexuality. _Minutes_ earlier. But with only little hint from Freddie, he was back to hoping to give him anything at all. He scooted toward Freddie, just a bit, just enough for Freddie to notice.

“Because,” Freddie smiled with melancholy eyes and a wayward hand on Roger’s thigh. “We’re friends.”

“Freddie,” said Roger, not bothering to hide the frustration in his voice, “do you think I sucked your cock as an act of friendship?”

“No but…” Freddie’s words trailed off again, losing his own point.

“I want you, I have for awhile,” said Roger with a smirk, hoping to set Freddie’s mind at ease, but Freddie kept his eyes on the upholstery threads he was tugging out of the cushion. “I won’t ask you to do anything about it. But I’m not disgusted by you, you don’t have to apologise for thinking of me when you’re with her.”

Freddie cleared his throat and looked up at Roger with wide, wet eyes, tears threatening to stream down his cheeks. “I do, I do want you, Roger.”

“Then have me,” said Roger, scooting closer still, tucking Freddie’s long hair behind his ear. “Let me take care of you how she can’t.”

Freddie stared at him, a few tears fell as his eyes flicked down to Roger’s mouth. Roger leaned forward, ghosting his lips against Freddie’s, waiting for him to protest, and when he didn’t, Roger kissed him. Light at first, patient. Then with a bit more need, a bit more desperation, he ran his tongue across Freddie’s and listened the way his breath hitched at the feeling. He felt Freddie leaning into the touch, more and more, touching Roger more and more.

His hand moved up his thigh, lingered at his hip, moved up his stomach, his chest and rested over his heart. And then he pushed. And pushed, and pulled himself away from Roger and roughly wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” said Roger.

“I don’t want to want you, Roger, I don’t want to want this,” said Freddie, his voice starting to get lost in the tears.

“But you do,” said Roger.

Freddie laughed a shaky, unsatisfied laugh. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Why is there where you draw the line?” said Roger. “Everything else you want you just take it, you grab life by the throat and demand it. Why is this the one thing you can’t let yourself have?”

Freddie stared at him with a quivering lip, wide eyes, and no answers. Roger ran a sympathetic hand through his hair and mussed it just the way he liked it.

“Nothing bad is going to happen, not to me not to you not to the band. I want you,” Roger’s hand moved down to his shoulder, “I want you. Bad.” His hand moved down Freddie’s chest. “You know there’s things she can’t give you, things you’ve been dying for.” His fingertips drew circles against Freddie’s hip before dipping further down and teasing his cock through his trousers. He leant into Freddie then, Roger could hear every little breathy moan as his hand moved. “I can give it to you, Freddie. Let me show you how good it can be.”

Freddie’s hand twisted in Roger’s shirt as a choked moan escaped his lips. He sighed with a shake to his breathing. “What if something bad happens.”

“It’ll be worth it,” said Roger. Freddie’s hips bucked up to meet Roger’s teasing hand, and he stared with a deep, thoughtful gaze, into Roger’s eyes for a moment, a short moment, and then closed the space between them just as desperately as Roger had.

Roger knew if he stopped to realise what was happening, if he stopped to really think about what they were doing he’d start having second thoughts and anxieties that had no basis in reality. So he didn’t think. He let Freddie unbutton his shirt while he unbuckled Freddie’s trousers. Freddie’s hands shook as they explored Roger’s chest, tentatively stopping at the few spots of muscle definition.

“I’ve thought about this more than I care to admit,” said Freddie. “You’ve got such a nice body.”

“It’s all yours,” said Roger.

“Fuck,” said Freddie under his breath. “We should go to my room.”

“We should,” said Roger, also not keen on the idea of staining their one piece of ‘good’ furniture. He stood and pulled Freddie up with him. “Well _come on_.” Roger took a playful hold of Freddie’s wrist and hurried them off towards Freddie’s bedroom, the two of them giggling the whole way.

Freddie rushed past Roger and peeled his clothes off on the way to his bed while Roger took in and savoured every second of it. Watched the way the muscles in his back moved when he tore his shirt off, watched the curve of his legs as he tugged his trousers off and kicked his shoes. Watched him settle on the end of the bed in just his pants. From his spot by the door, palming his erection lazily through his trousers, he had the best seat in the house.

Freddie grinned up at him as Roger crossed the room to him. His smile as bright as the red tinting his cheeks. He’d long since stopped watching Roger and was focused on the way he worked his erection over his trousers.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Rog,” said Freddie with a lot of false confidence.

Roger obliged and climbed up onto the bed and couldn’t help but groan watching how easily Freddie’s legs spread to welcome him in. Freddie’s hands ran up and down his back as Roger leaned down to kiss him. And when Roger rolled his clothed cock against Freddie’s they both shuddered.

“Rog,” hummed Freddie in his ear. Roger rolled his hips again, more forceful more desperate, and Freddie whined each time with each little movement. Roger pushed himself up, a little breathless, a little eager, and hoped he would see the same thing in Freddie’s eyes. “You ever done it like this before, blondie?”

“I can figure it out,” said Roger.

“Lube’s in the top drawer.”

Freddie shimmied his pants off and threw them while Roger unbuckled his belt with one hand and delved into Freddie’s bedside drawer with the other. He tossed the lube onto the bed with Freddie and hurried to peel off his flared trousers and pants. Freddie sat up to meet Roger at the end of the bed and took his cock in his hand, peppered kisses across his hips. Though Roger’s mind had been preoccupied with the beauty of how Freddie sucked cock for months on end, he didn’t have the patience for it. He wanted Freddie then and now and playfully pushed his shoulders back onto the bed to show it.

Freddie reached up for him, begged him to join him on the bed, and Roger did. He climbed between his legs, coated a few fingers with lube and pushed his tongue into Freddie’s mouth in time with his fingers. Freddie’s breath still caught in his throat but Roger kept moving, kept working him open and getting him used to the feeling.

“You done this before?” said Roger against Freddie’s jaw.

“Fuck,” said Freddie when Roger curled his fingers _just right._ “No, never.”

“So we’re both clueless,” said Roger between pressing kisses to the corner of Freddie’s mouth, to his jaw, to his neck. Freddie hummed in response and whined when Roger sat back. Roger looked down at him in almost disbelief. After so long of fantasising, getting his hopes dashed, getting his confidence shattered, he had Freddie, and Freddie had him. “You look beautiful.”

“Even at this angle?” laughed Freddie.

“Especially at this angle,” said Roger. He noticed Freddie’s thighs trembling as he watched Roger coat his cock in lube. He put a steadying, comforting hand on the soft skin of Freddie’s inner thigh and rubbed and massaged his thigh, up to his soft belly, his chest, his hips, his cock, as he pushed in. Freddie let out small gasps and painful whines that didn’t stop when Roger stilled. “Is it okay?”

“Big,” said Freddie.

“Big,” said Roger with a smirk.

“Fuck me.” Freddie reached down and grabbed Roger’s hip, pulling him in closer. “Hurry.”

Roger didn’t need to be told twice. Freddie wanted it bad but couldn’t take all of him just yet so Roger’s thrusts were slow and his kisses deep. Freddie wrapped his legs, his arms around Roger and though Roger could hear him trying not to wince, he didn’t hold back his moans. His heels dug into Roger’s back begging him to go deeper. So Roger did, deeper and harder, rolling his hips into Freddie with less and less caution. It felt good for Roger the second he’d sunk into the tight, welcoming heat of Freddie’s body, but he could tell now that it felt good for Freddie too, that all the old shocks of pain were gone and just the pleasure remained.

The orgasm building in Roger, he was sure, would happen before Freddie’s. So to speed things along, he stroked Freddie’s aching cock. Freddie groaned, high and lengthy and clawed at Roger’s shoulders with a little more desperation, whispered ‘please Roger’ in his ear over and over, begging for more. So Roger sped up, fucking him harder and deeper, stroking him faster. And when Freddie came it was with a scream that devolved into a low grumble as he coated his own stomach and Roger’s hand. His clawing arms went limp, his desperate pleas quieted, and the way Roger kept fucking his oversensitive body had only little yelps escaping his lips.

“I’m close.” Roger wished his voice sounded a little more masculine but he was so desperate, coming apart at the seams chasing the orgasm Freddie was giving him, he couldn’t sound composed.

“In me,” said Freddie. He barely had the words out before Roger tensed and filled him and did his best not to collapse on Freddie, but Freddie wasted no time in pulling him down, kissing him rough and sloppy and pulling Roger’s hips closer, getting his cock that little bit deeper. Roger’s breathing shook as Freddie rolled himself against Roger, fucking himself with slow, shallow movements.

“Give me ten minutes and we can go again,” said Roger. Freddie brushed Roger’s sweaty hair back with a laugh, a laugh that stopped when Roger added, “I’m serious.”

“No wonder the girls love you,” said Freddie. “Another time, maybe.”

“You alright?” Freddie nodded and tapped Roger’s hips, cueing him to pull out. He did, slowly, and watched the way Freddie’s eyes closed in pleasure when he did. “I think I’m gonna be sore.”

“I’m sorry.” Roger pressed a kiss to his lips, to his jaw, to his temple, and slowly rolled off him. “I tried to be gentle and you begged me to impale you so—”

“Alright!” laughed Freddie, slapping Roger’s stomach with no force behind it. “I should rinse off, I’ll be back.”

Freddie didn’t look back as he stumbled out of the room and into the bathroom. Roger listened to the shower running, listened to the pipes smack against their drywall, and wondered what they would do in the morning. What would change and what wouldn’t. His mind swam around the thoughts, never daring to delve into any of them too deeply. He didn’t know what would come but for right then, for that night he wanted to be happy. And when Freddie shyly crept into his own room, a towel around his waist and his hair only partially wet, Roger couldn’t imagine being unhappy.

He tugged the towel off when Freddie got close enough and pulled him onto the bed, into his arms. Freddie laughed and let Roger cover his face, his neck, his chest with obnoxious, noisy, loving kisses. He let Roger shimmy the two of them under the sheets, and let him hold onto Freddie like his life depended on it. And maybe it did.

“I love you, Freddie,” said Roger, between kisses, against the soft skin just behind Freddie’s ear.

“I love you too,” hummed Freddie. Roger snaked a hand up Freddie’s chest and held a hand against his cheek, let his thumb stroke his soft skin. Freddie looked at him, his black eyes capturing flecks of moonlight, and rolled into Roger to kiss him once more, one last time before they fell into each other. Running their fingertips over wherever they could, savouring the feeling of their legs entwining, listening to each other breathe, listening to each other’s hearts beat and eventually slow down as they fell asleep.

~~~

Roger woke the next morning with a jump. He blinked his bleary eyes at the sun streaming in Freddie’s window as the memories of the night before flooded back. He felt his cheeks pink up and felt that intense sense of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. He reached an arm out for Freddie, to hold until he woke up, but his spot was empty.

Roger sat up, more alert than before but his mind still confused and slow from the deep sleep he’d jolted out of. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to clear up his vision and his thoughts.

“Morning,” said Freddie in the doorway. His dressing gown was cinched tight and the mug of coffee in his hand looked full.

“Morning,” said Roger with a wide grin. He reached a hand out, hoping Freddie would offer him a sip of his coffee. But Freddie stayed still and Roger’s arm slowly fell by his side. “Everything okay?”

The silence lingered between them, growing longer and more tense with each passing second. It told Roger what Freddie was tiptoeing around. That he wasn’t ready for it, not now and maybe not ever, that Mary was still hanging over his head. That his parents, that the band, that the world, were all still looming over him and begging him to be invisible in this one aspect of himself. And Roger knew he couldn’t be the one to fix that.

“I’m sorry, Rog,” began Freddie, his voice shaking with the tears brimming his eyes.

“Hey, hey,” said Roger, fighting the lump in his own throat. “Don’t get teary on me.”

Freddie mouthed ‘sorry’ and wiped the tears from his eyes before they had a chance to fall. Roger smirked at him. He wanted to cry too, wanted to scream at him and tell him what a mistake he was making with Mary, wanted to remind him how happy they’d been together the night before, how right it all felt, how it all locked into place so perfectly. How he shouldn’t give that up to avoid a few stares. But Freddie wouldn’t listen to that, he never had.

“I still love you,” said Roger, a pathetic last ditch effort for some kind of reciprocation.

“I still love you too,” replied Freddie. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” said Roger. He sighed, deep and shaking as he tried not to let any tears fall. “I suppose this is another thing we can never speak of?”

“Don’t say it like I force you to forget,” said Freddie. Roger scoffed and regretted it when he heard the helpless whine from Freddie, on the edge of tears. “Rog, I don’t know what you want me to do, anymore. I don’t want to be any more different than I already am. You, you purebred white, privately educated golden boy wouldn’t understand it. At a certain point I don’t want to be a novelty, I’m tired.”

“Even if it’s who you are?” said Roger, not bothering to hide the anger in his voice. “Even if it’s what you want?”

“I’m sorry,” said Freddie, his voice quiet and resigned. Roger knew there would be no changing his mind, not in the moment, not with the two of them so vulnerable and aching and hurt. One more minute and he’d say something he’d regret, so he wrapped a sheet around his waist, walked to the doorway and kissed Freddie. One last time, his fingertips lingering in his hair, his lips dragging down his jaw, and broke away. Sealed himself up in the bathroom and took a shower hot enough to scald him while he wondered if he’d rather forget the night before or cherish the memory.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Again!! Sorry this took me so long. I had some unfortunate luck and then I got the flu, all around a bad month and it too me awhile to finish this up, I reedited it so many times. I hope y'all haven't lost too much interest! It's a rather long chapter, about 9.5k last I checked, so I hope that bit of length can make up in part for the wait haha! So this is the last chapter! If you would like an epilogue? Let me know! And if you have any requests for my next fic let me know! Please comment if you've enjoyed this it means so much to me <3

**April 1972**

If Roger knew how to do one thing well, it was pretend sex meant nothing. In the days that followed their night together, he and Freddie did a great job of acting as if it didn’t happen until they were both almost convinced it was a dream. Roger stuffed his feelings for Freddie back in the furthest reaches of his heart. He wasn’t sure what Freddie did with his feelings for him, wasn’t entirely sure they even existed. But he’d never ask, never bring it up, never imply again that there was a point in time where all he wanted was to be with him. That was over, and while he may not have done it in a sustainable, or even healthy way, he’d moved on. And for now, while they really focused on the band, he could be okay.

“I can’t do it anymore,” groaned Freddie. He stood, hands carefully on his hips, at a mic in the center of the little recording booth. John sat next to him, his bass in his loose grip. Roger sat behind them, out of sight mostly, his feet twitching and playing unnecessary beats while Brian paced around the room, his guitar wailing long, unpolished noises. “I’ve been shouting all day, my voice is just shot.”

The four of them had finally got a hold of a studio space they could make the most of. But only from the hours of two in the morning to five in the morning. During the day they had such great ideas, so much inspiration for riffs and bits of lyrics. But something happened to them as the days grew long that warped all those ideas into what could either be genius or total shit. All four were rather curious to record a demo and find out which.

“Don’t sing then,” offered John. “We can just experiment with everything else.”

“Do what you will but I’m,” Freddie hung his headphones over the studio’s mic stand with a flourish, “going home.”

“Home?” said Brian, his fingers still poised over specific and, in Roger’s opinion, totally discordant notes.

“I’ve got that interview tomorrow morning.” Freddie meandered from the mic stand and picked his jacket up off the stool it was draped over, just by the door. “Er, well I guess today morning, today. Later today. In six hours.”

“I still think it’s bullshit,” said Roger, his left foot anxiously stomping down on his hi-hat. “We’re musicians, we don’t need office jobs—”

“You’re being a bitch just because it’s Mary’s idea,” said Freddie as he adjusted the collar of his jacket. “It’s not an office job, it’s graphic design, it’s still creative its just money to help _all of us_ along in this.”

“I drove us here and I’m not leaving,” spat Roger.

“I don’t need you to, she’s coming to get me,” said Freddie with a tired sigh.

It was a silent argument they had whenever her name came up. Roger got pissy around her, even just the mention of her, and Freddie knew. And more importantly Freddie knew why. But they didn’t talk about it. For all intents and purposes Roger and Freddie were friends, neither felt anymore than that, and any distaste Roger felt for Mary was nothing to do with their relationship and all to do with her interference in the band’s affairs.

“Fine,” spat Roger. “Don’t chain the door when you go to sleep.”

“I won’t chain the door at all, I’m staying at hers,” said Freddie not noticing how Roger’s jaw clenched. “Goodnight everyone, wish me luck.”

John and Brian’s overlapped ‘good luck’s followed Freddie out of the studio. Roger did a good job every day of pretending he didn’t love Freddie. Pretended, maybe, he even hated him. He could even convince himself Mary wasn’t the problem, that she was just bothersome, incompatible with him at times. But what he could never quite contain was the pained jealousy of knowing Mary was getting his best.

He adjusted his hi hat incrementally. A little too open, a little to closed, over and over again, never quite getting it where he wanted it and his hands getting shakier with rage the longer he went.

“Rog—” began John, though his voice went unheard.

“Fuck it!” said Roger as he kicked the hi hat over.

“Rog!” spat Brian. “This isn’t your kit you can’t—”

“I know I can’t fucking break the fucking thing!” shouted Roger. He shoved the overturned hi hat further away with his foot. “Does it fucking look broken?!”

“Roger,” said John flatly.

“I’m taking a break,” sighed Brian. “Get some fucking coffee or something, I’m not going to babysit one of your tantrums.”

For his own sanity, and the sanity of others, Roger ignored that comment and ignore how hard Brian slammed the door on his way out. John, perched on the padded stool by the mic stand stared at him from over his bass that he cradled in his lap. Roger stared back for a moment, waiting for John to give up and look away, to let the silence continue unregarded.

“Roger,” said John, softly.

“Deaky,” replied Roger with too much bite in his voice. He avoided John’s gaze and stood to replace the hi hat and readjust the pedal, his back strategically facing John.

“You seem bothered,” said John. “In fact, you’ve seemed bothered for awhile now.”

“I know,” said Roger. “I think Mary’s got too much say in the band that’s all. I don’t like an external force acting on the four of us—”

“So it’s got nothing to do with what happened?”

Roger paused his hands for a moment, both fiddling with nothing in particular. “No. It doesn’t. That’s history.”

“It’s pretty recent history,” said John, flippant.

Roger stood and thought he might sit back on the kit and drum away John’s tedious conversation, but he found himself nestling down on the floor, his back firmly to the wall, his eyes up on John watching him drum his fingers over the body of his guitar.

“It’s done though,” said Roger. “He had me and he said no so I moved on a long time ago.”

“Did he really have you?” said John skeptically. “I mean you blew him but that doesn’t mean—”

“I fucked him,” added Roger quickly. Roger heard a few thuds in the hall, distinct footfalls of Brian, though much louder than they normally were.

“What? When was this?” said John, recoiling in surprise.

“Last summer, end of last summer.” Roger crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to remember the memory too fondly. He wasn’t foolish enough to make the mistake of dwelling on that night. “And the next morning he said no. It’s done, it’s behind me. I don’t have to like Mary, though. She’s still a bitch, she’s still too involved in the band, but I don’t care if he’s with her.”

Roger knew it was lie, and he knew John knew that too. But neither would say it, neither would make Roger face his own impossible feelings. There was no prize anymore. Freddie wouldn’t love him no matter how open he was about his own feelings, Freddie wouldn’t leave Mary wouldn’t confess his true nature to himself. All those feelings could do anymore was break up their friendship, and break up the band.

“I’m so sorry, Rog. If I had known—“ began John.

“Don’t be sorry,” said Roger. “Time’s passed, it doesn’t sting. I don’t feel that way now, it’s okay.”

“If you say so,” said John.

“I do,” replied Roger. A silence settled in between them, uncomfortable in a way that was unusual between them. “Brian was right, I need coffee.”

“Okay,” said John with sympathetic eyes. Roger bit his tongue and forced himself out of the door before he argued with John about his pity. He didn’t want pity, he didn’t want anything from anybody. The door to the recording booth closed shut behind him as he crossed the short hall to the cramped break room.

It had a coffee machine, an electric kettle that was beyond repair, a small table but no chairs, and a few scattered bags of crisps and other non perishable cheap snacks. Roger gave a wordless hello to Brian who had paper towels lining the countertop.

“Spilled my coffee,” said Brian, gesturing to his empty mug.

“I noticed,” said Roger. He sidled up to Brian and reached in the cupboard for a mug, carefully avoiding the coffee dripping off the edges of the laminate. The coffee was still brewing, still dripping down into the pot, only a few sips worth was already brewed.

“I used the last of it,” said Brian.

“I noticed,” repeated Roger. He stared at the coffee pot in silence, waiting for at least a quarter of a mug’s worth to brew while Brian wiped the counter down.

From down the hall, Roger heard the bass line Deaky had been working on all night. An experiment they weren’t sure they’d use in anything at all. So distinct, so clear. For a moment Roger’s body ran cold thinking his words from earlier were entirely audible out in the break room. But no, no, the recording booth was entirely soundproof when the door was closed, there was no chance of his and John’s conversation leaking out.

“Must’ve just left the door to the booth open,” muttered Roger, comforting himself more than he was trying to make conversation.

“Maybe,” said Brian.

“Fuck!” screamed John, though Roger hadn’t noticed if he’d missed a note. His voice sounded so clear, so close even.

“Acoustics in here are brilliant,” said Roger under his breath. He knew the room was soundproof, he knew the typical deadened sound that he’d normally hear from a cracked or open door. And yet he could hear every tricky move John was making on his bass and every muttered curse when he made a mistake. It sounded less like his performance carefully bouncing out of the recording booth and through the open door, and much more like a recording.

“Maybe,” said Brian. His hand moved with the wet rag in circles over the cleaned countertop, aimlessly and slowly as the bass’s music filled the break room and the coffee brewed drip by drip.

“What do you mean maybe?” said Roger.

“I think it,” Brian cleared his throat. Roger couldn’t help notice his face getting redder by the second. “I think it’s just the uh, the speaker.” He cleared his throat again. “From the mixing room. The recording booth is mic’ed up still so everything in there is going to the speakers…”

Roger couldn’t bare to look at him. He’d heard. Brian had heard the embarrassing fact of his rejection, the awkward shame of his sexuality, the immature ramblings of his denials, and he’d not said a word, he’d not tuned out, he’d not warned them they weren’t in private anymore. He wanted to be angry, wanted to demand to know why Brian had just sat and listened in on something he obviously wasn’t supposed to hear. But much more of him was too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

“Fuck this,” said Roger. He hurried out of the break room.

“Roger, wait,” called Brian after him. “Roger!”

“I’m going home!” screamed Roger. He walked at top speed down the hall, not daring to turn and face Brian. He patted his pockets for his keys and hurried out to the car park. His jacket was somewhere in the booth but he’d sooner freeze than go back for it.

~~~

Roger wasn’t sure why he minded Brian knowing but he did, very much. He didn’t care to psychoanalyse it, he preferred to just forget, to pretend he’d never said anything. It’d worked so far. So the next days, or nights rather, in the studio, he pretended nothing happened. And mercifully, Brian followed his lead and said nothing and Roger figured they’d all put it to bed and decided to collectively move on from it. Something Roger desperately needed.

He didn’t get drunk much these days, neither did Freddie. Both unspoken in their worry about what might happen if the slightest hint of inhibition came between them. Which made pub nights much more of a drag then they used to be. Roger used to get a few pints in him and laugh a little too hard at everyone’s stories, jokes, jabs. But sitting, crammed into a corner by Mary, stone cold sober, he couldn’t imagine himself cracking a smile all night.

Mary droned on, some insufferably long story that Roger never bothered to tune into but one that had everyone else laughing. He laughed to avoid being singled out as the only one who didn’t, and he tried to pay no mind when Mary pushed Freddie out of the booth to dance. He told himself to enjoy the extra space in the booth while it lasted, to focus on being able to lift his drink without cramming his elbow into his own ribs. But his eyes still followed the two of them across the pub, and watched the way he held her and she held him, watched their happy expressions.

“Alright Rog?” said Brian.

“Perfect,” spat Roger. Freddie laughed a distinctive laugh across the pub, Mary joined him, and Roger averted his eyes just before their lips met. “You know what, I’m tired.”

“Stay a bit longer,” said John, reaching a hand across the table. The pitied look John gave him made his skin crawl. Rejection was bad enough, rejection from a close friend even worse, rejection from a close friend in which all of his other friends knew was absolute hell. And though more than anything he didn’t want to ever mention those old feelings again. It was easiest just to go.

“I don’t…I need sleep,” said Roger. He did, in all fairness, need sleep. It’d been a week since he’d accidentally told Brian and though he never wanted to speak about it again, not speaking about it left a lot in the air. He’d been tossing and turning every night since, wondering what Brian’s opinion of it all was. Wondering if he told Freddie, wondering if Freddie told him anything. “Freddie’s probably going home with her anyway, he doesn’t need a ride.”

“Is there any way to convince you to stay?” said John, knowing there wasn’t.

“I’ll stay later next time, I promise,” said Roger as he scooted out of the booth.

“Wait,” said Brian, his long legs shuffling out of the booth as well, “can I get a ride?”

“Why?” spat Roger, a bit harsher than he hoped to come off.

“Chrissie wants me to come by hers, don’t wanna walk,” said Brian with a shrug. Roger sighed some form of approval and felt Brian following him out.

Roger walked a step ahead of Brian and had his keys in his hand long before they ever reached his van. Something told him Brian wanted to talk and there was nothing Roger wanted to do less. Not with Brian especially. Brian was like an elder brother to him, something he’d never had. This new element of himself wasn’t something he liked Brian knowing, it wasn’t something he ever planned to tell him. It felt too strange, felt like something Brian wouldn’t quite understand, something that would put distance between them if they said it out loud.

As soon as the engine was turned over, Roger cranked the radio as loud as he could and put the van in reverse. He pulled out of the lot and onto the main road. The radio blaring, his eyes securely on the road, Roger felt he could avoid even small talk at this rate.

But then he hit a red light. Just as Roger eased the breaks on, Brian flicked the radio off. Off, not even down, _off_. Roger’s heart moved up to his throat as both hands uselessly clutched the wheel of his motionless van.

“So Freddie—”

“I don’t,” Roger groaned, gripping the wheel a little tighter, “I really don’t want to talk about this, Brian.”

“Why, what’s the harm?” said Brian, calm, a little too collected.

“It’s in the past, it was a mistake, I don’t feel that way anymore—” began Roger.

“Bullshit,” interrupted Brian.

“It’s not bullshit!” spat Roger, his eyes daring to meet Brian’s. Brian just scoffed. “It’s not bullshit! I did have feelings for him a long time ago and he said no, I moved on—”

“Roger, it’s me,” said Brian, settling into his seat a bit more comfortably.

“I moved on,” said Roger in an even tone.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Rog. I know that you feel a lot more than you let on, I know you feel a lot _deeper_ than you let on. I know if you were sincere when you said you were in love with Freddie, you haven’t moved on. Not yet anyway.”

The confidence behind Brian’s words struck a chord in Roger. He wanted to fight him and prove him wrong but he had no means to do that. His feelings for Freddie were so barely hidden from himself there was no way to hide them from someone trying to find them like Brian.

“Your opinion doesn’t matter in this,” said Roger as the light turned green.

“I’m not suggesting it does,” said Brian. “But, honestly that’s not even what I wanted to say.”

“I don’t want to hear—”

“Can you please just listen to me for one second,” spat Brian. “I’m trying to help you.”

The urge to tell Brian to shut up and fuck off was overwhelming. Brian didn’t know anything about it, he had no idea what Roger was feeling, what Freddie was feeling, or how any of this was supposed to move forward. Brian found a girl he loved and settled in with her a few weeks into dating. He’d never understand things the way Roger was living them. But more than he wanted to yell at him for daring to assume he had any idea what he was talking about, Roger wanted to hear Brian’s advice and feel his support. It had been a lonely few months and leaning on Brian for a night could lessen that weight no matter how embarrassing it might be.

“Fine, what were you gonna say?”

“I just, I don’t like seeing you get so upset about Mary. It makes more sense now than your excuse of her ‘interfering with the band’ or whatever. But I don’t like that the mere sight of her makes you sick,” said Brian.

“What do you want me to do? Cheer them on?” said Roger with a frustrated laugh.

“No, I mean...” Brian rubbed his eyes, getting annoyed with Roger or his own word choice. “I mean she’s not going to be around much longer.”

“Did…did Freddie say something?” Roger got his hopes up despite himself.

“Roger, he fucked you. I didn’t ask for any other details from Deaks, not that he would’ve given me any, but that’s enough for me to be sure. Mary is temporary.”

“He fucked me and then the next morning said—”

“I don’t honestly care what he said the next morning. Freddie has _a way_ about him, we all were uncertain if Mary would really be the best fit for him. And you proved that, no, she isn’t.”

“He knows that,” said Roger.

“What?” said Brian, a confused laugh leaving his lips.

“He told me he didn’t want me because he didn’t want to be _like this_. I told him he didn’t have a choice and we sort of just…agreed to disagree.” Roger turned down the wrong street and huffed in a delicate frustration as tears threatened to well in his eyes.

“Oh Freddie,” sighed Brian.

They drove in silence for a moment, each trying to put their thoughts back together. Roger didn’t like thinking of that morning. He often dreamt of it but he worked hard to never let that memory enter his conscious mind. It hurt too much to remember Freddie, stood in the doorway, apologising, crying, while Roger begged him to love him.

“Rog,” said Brian, snapping him from his daze. “Freddie has a lot going on. But you’re his best friend. Mary is gonna go away when he can’t take being with her anymore. She’ll go. She’s not going to be in his life the way you are. You’re his roommate, his bandmate, his best friend. He’s fucking her, but you matter more. Much more.”

“If I mattered so much more why…” Roger couldn’t bear to finish the thought.

“He’s dealing with it in his own way. Maybe he’ll come around and you two can be madly in love, maybe this is the universe trying to tell you that your friendship wouldn’t survive a romance. I don’t know what’s going to happen but I do know that Mary isn’t going to be a longterm nuisance. He’s trying to be happy, and he’s failing with her but too scared for anyone else. He needs your friendship more than your feelings right now.”

Roger scoffed, tears welling in his eyes, his voice starting to crack. “What about my happiness? Is that worth nothing? Am I supposed to give him everything and let him pick and choose what he’ll deign to take from me?”

“He would do the same for you.”

Roger turned his eyes back to the road, a few stray tears stained his cheeks as he drove. He knew Brian was right, knew that Freddie would’ve sacrificed his own comfort for Roger’s happiness in a heartbeat, knew that if the situation were reversed, if Roger felt trapped in his own identity, Freddie wouldn’t press him wouldn’t ask too much of him.

“He’s a better person than me,” muttered Roger, mostly to himself.

“No he’s not,” said Brian. A comforting hand reached to hold Roger’s shoulder.

“Well…we’re here,” said Roger, gesturing up to Chrissie’s flat.

“I don’t have to go,” said Brian. “I can stay the night with you, or—you can come up? We can go to mine?”

Roger wiped his face gruffly and smiled as convincingly as he could. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“You don’t have to be fine. We can even go to another pub get proper drunk—”

“I promise, I’m fine,” said Roger. “I promise.”

“Okay well, call me if you aren’t,” said Brian, his eyes sad and sympathetic. “I love you.”

“For God’s sake,” said Roger, rolling his teary eyes. “Don’t get all mushy just for this.”

Brian didn’t acknowledge Roger’s fake irritation at his mushiness and leant over the gearshift to hug Roger. Roger made some insignificant comment about Brian being too emotional, but the comment was made with his eyes closed and his arms squeezing Brian, savouring the safety of Brian’s arms around him. Brian made him swear to call if he needed anything before scrambling out of the car and up to Chrissie’s door.

~~~

Freddie wasn’t back by the time Roger made his way to their apartment. He figured Freddie’d stayed over with Mary. To take his mind off of what they were no doubt doing right then, he put his Bowie album on the turntable in their living room and turned up past what Freddie would like and tried to hear all the nuances that were normally drowned out by Freddie critiquing his singing.

Black Country Rock played. Roger couldn’t help smirk thinking of that night, the same song played while Freddie braided, or attempted to braid, his hair. The first time they’d kissed. So awkward and needy. Roger blushed and cringed as he remembered that night with all the fondness in the world.

Brian was probably right, Mary probably wouldn’t last the way Freddie thought she would, the way Roger feared she would. Maybe Freddie didn’t want him, right now or ever, but he could still help him, still make sure he felt like home to Freddie the same way Freddie felt like home to him. Even if it hurt, even if it stung, it was what Freddie needed.

Roger, momentarily in a daydream, snapped out of it when he heard fighting on the street below. He took the needle off the record in hopes of eavesdropping. The words weren’t clear, but the timbre of the voices were. It had to be Freddie and Mary having it out on the street. Roger gathered up the dinner he’d made for himself and hurried to his room knowing that fight was about to be continued in their living room.

He held his breath with a mouthful of the lentils Freddie’s mum had given them when the front door burst open. It reminded him distantly of the many nights spent sitting in his room, Clare at the foot of his bed, trying to pretend they weren’t listening to their parents argue down in the kitchen.

Their words overlapped so much, their voices working more towards volume than clarity. Roger could only make out a few words, a few phrases though none of them really telling him what the row was about. He stayed silent for a few minutes more, trying more absentmindedly to listen in, no longer holding his breath between bites or really focusing. And just as abruptly as it’d started, he heard the front door slam shut and the screaming stop.

He waited for a beat or two, wondering if they’d both left, if Freddie had stormed out, or if Mary had just taken her leave. The silence was eerie enough that Roger expected something to jump out at him when he opened his bedroom door.

“Rog?” said Freddie somewhere in the living room.

“Fred?” said Roger as he meandered down the hall to meet him.

“I didn’t know you were home, I’m sorry—” began Freddie. Roger shook his head, not listening to and not taking the apology.

He shuffled across the room and sat right next to him on the couch. There was an amount of distance they’d been keeping, a comfortable British distance that didn’t look strange to anyone else but to them it was totally alien. So Roger sat with his leg pressed to Freddie’s and stared straight ahead.

“You okay?” said Roger. “I couldn’t make out what it was about but…”

“The usual,” said Freddie with a sad and sarcastic smile.

“You fight like that a lot?”

Freddie shrugged. “More these days I guess.”

Roger wanted to ask why he wouldn’t just leave, why he couldn’t just let himself be happy. But he could practically see Freddie’s eyes dreading those questions. “I’m sorry, Fred.”

“Don’t be, we’re fine,” said Freddie entirely unconvincingly. A beat of tense silence and then, “please don’t tell me to leave her again, I don’t have the energy—”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Roger quickly. Freddie looked at him, surprised clear across his face.

“No lecture about being true to myself?” said Freddie with a mirthless laugh. They hadn’t talked so candidly since it happened, it felt so foreign to be acknowledging what had been right in front of them for so long.

“I still love you,” said Roger, surprising himself as much as Freddie.

“Even after how I treated you?” said Freddie.

“Of course,” said Roger. “I still have feelings and I’ll always love you but it’s okay. I don’t…It doesn’t matter. I just want you to be happy and if you say you’re happy with her then I’m happy for you.”

Freddie studied his features, trying to make sense of it almost. Roger grinned.

“I know, neither of us is used to me putting someone before myself but I mean it. I love you enough that I don’t care how you’re happy, who you’re happy with, I just want you to be happy.”

“I want you to be happy too,” said Freddie, his eyes beginning to glisten with tears. “I’m so sorry, Roger.”

“Oh, oh,” said Roger, reaching forward to wrap his arms around Freddie. Roger could feel Freddie’s tears soaking into his shoulder, but he paid them no mind. His hands trailed up and down his back, hoping to offer him the comfort he couldn’t seem to find in anyone else. “It’s okay. Come on, let me make tea, heat some dinner up, we can listen to your opera and everything.”

“That,” Freddie sniffled and pulled away, wiping his eyes, hiding his reddened cheeks, “that would be good, thank you.”

Roger made small talk as he heated up the kettle, heated up the lentils for Freddie, and rummaged around for tea bags. Surface level conversation to tape over and hold together the precarious mood of the night. And Freddie cheered up as he ate, he and Roger played a round of scrabble while his awful opera music hummed in the corner. Neither kept score, both too tired to remember how and instead they ended the game when neither could quite keep their eyes open any longer.

“Goodnight, Fred,” said Roger as he nudged his door open.

“Night, Rog,” replied Freddie as he did the same. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

~~~

Roger made good on his word to play nice with Mary. He didn’t start any fights and he was the first to end any bickering between them. It was awful, painful at times to be nice to the woman he was so sure was destroying Freddie’s life, but it was for Freddie’s sake in the end. So when she teased him about his looks, his drumming, his lack of female companionship, he brushed it off and tried to pretend it was good natured friendly ribbing. And when he saw Mary’s smug face of victory each night spent in the pub together, he clung to Brian’s promise that he would be around much longer than her.

“Have Roger do it,” said Mary. They were all huddled around the coffee table, absently playing scrabble and drinking. “You’re closest to the kitchen go on,” added Mary, shooing him away with her hand to get more wine and whiskey from the kitchen.

He was closest, and he would’ve gone without prompting, there was no need for Mary to treat him like a misbehaving child but that was par for the course these days. He mumbled an ‘okay’ and went to the kitchen. He savoured the moment or two of peace he had while tearing the foil off the wine bottle and took a deep breath before bringing it out to the table.

Mary sat on the couch, her legs draped over Freddie’s lap, her arms around his shoulders. An outright, attacking claim to him. Veronica sat by her with John on the floor between her legs, her hands comfortably carding through his hair. Brian sat on the floor opposite them, his legs stretched out under the coffee table, Chrissie sitting between them and leaning into his arms.

Roger slammed the whiskey and wine down on the table with a sigh and took his spot at the far end of the coffee table, his legs crossing uncomfortably under himself, his back already beginning to ache from his tight position on the floor.

“Who’s turn is it?” said Veronica, her words slurring more from sleep than the drinks.

“I haven’t been paying attention,” said Mary with a giggle.

Roger knew whose turn it was, Chrissie’s, but as he poured himself more whiskey he couldn’t help feel embarrassed to know. He was the only one without a distraction, the only one who cared about the stupid fucking game of scrabble, everyone else was too busy with each other.

“Roggie’s been keeping score right?” said Mary. Roger hated the nickname Roggie, and he knew Mary knew that, but asking her to stop would only ensure she did it more. “You’ve got your hands free. Who was the last to go?”

“Stopped keeping score a few turns ago,” said Roger with a fake laugh.

“Such a shame you’re over there all alone,” said Mary, pouting dramatically.

“I’m fine being alone,” said Roger under his breath. He fiddled with his tiles as if the game might still continue despite everyone’s disinterest.

“I think people tend to need time alone,” said Veronica. “It’s better than being together just for the sake of loneliness.”

John chuckled and tilted his head back to look up at her. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Yes, we’re through,” said Veronica before pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

“Oh, I don’t know,” chided Mary in a singsong playful voice that couldn’t fool Roger, and wasn’t meant to. “I think he needs someone.”

“We could always set him up?” offered Chrissie, her eyes a bit glazed over from the wine and trying hard to focus on Mary before switching to Roger. “If you want. I know you don’t really have trouble with women—”

“Got no trouble with men either,” added Mary with a laugh.

“Whose turn is it?” said Brian, hoping to cover her words but not having much of an effect. Chrissie laughed uncomfortably and Veronica just averted her eyes. But as it stood they could all just pass it off as an off colour joke.

“I think it’s mine,” said Chrissie sheepishly. She put down a few tiles that might’ve made a word, no one bothered to check or keep score. Roger downed the rest of his whiskey as Chrissie tried to count out her points.

“So how is recording coming?” said Veronica, mercifully giving the group a new topic of conversation.

“Pretty well I think,” said Freddie. His fingers drummed against Mary’s leg, the anxiety in him clear as day. “We’ve got a lot of experimental bits and pieces we’re not sure what to do with yet.”

“I think we just stick to what we’re good at on this first album, we can save that experimental shit for the second—” began Brian.

“That piece you were working on was good though, and I like what I’ve done with the drums,” interrupted Roger. “I think it’s worth fitting on the demo.”

“I don’t think we should gamble with getting our foot in the door,” said Brian as he haphazardly put tiles down on the board.

“Well I think—” began Roger.

“Oh who cares,” interrupted Mary with a cheerful grin. “You’re just the drummer.”

“Mary,” scolded Freddie with no real bite or care.

“We’re an equal parts band,” spat John. His distaste for Mary had only grown the longer she’d been around, he had no interest in staying on her good side.

She rolled her eyes and nestled into Freddie a bit more. “I just meant he’s never written a song. Can’t exactly write music on the drums can you, Roggie?”

“He’s written a fucking song, Mary,” spat Brian. “He plays more than drums—but even if he didn’t that doesn’t mean—”

“Bri, it’s fine,” said Roger, tapping his leg to get his attention. “Not worth it.”

Brian bit his tongue though Roger could tell he would’ve lectured her for hours if he’d let him. He didn’t want that though, Mary’s opinion of his musical contribution didn’t mean anything to him. Maybe, months before, he would’ve sat and argued back and forth with her but not anymore. He was intent on keeping the peace even when she was doing all she could to rile him up.

A silence settled in amongst them, uncomfortable and tense, neither wanting to remind Mary that it was her turn to play a word.

“If the uh,” began John in an attempt to keep the conversation moving, “if the heads at the studio like our demo they might help send it out to labels, so that’s…” his words petered off due to the fact that they never really had a point.

“Why don’t you get Roggie to suck one of ‘em off, you’ll get signed for sure and God knows he wouldn’t mind doing it. Right Rog?” said Mary, her face no longer plastered with a fake smile but turning red from the wine.

She held Roger’s gaze for a moment, looking down at him from her place on Freddie’s lap. Roger could only sit there, slack-jawed, completely out of practice in sticking up for himself. A few words tried to fight their way out of him but nothing made it past his lips. Not even a simple ‘fuck you’. He just sat there, a blush creeping up his neck. Veronica and Chrissie kept their eyes down, but Brian and John had turned to face Freddie.

And Freddie said nothing. No leaping to Roger’s defence, no lukewarm attempts to ask Mary to shut up, no muttered apologies, just an embarrassed and caught-out expression, not all that different from the one on Roger’s face.

“Fred?” prompted Brian.

Freddie met his eyes briefly, but he said nothing. Not one word to extend a hand to Roger. After months of keeping the peace with Mary and trying to get along, Freddie couldn’t even defend him when Mary tried to humiliate him. That anger, that betrayal, was enough to get Roger out of his frozen state.

“Okay.” Roger stood from his spot on the floor. “I’m going to bed.”

He didn’t look back as he hurried down the hall to his room and relished the safety of his closed door. He heard Chrissie and Veronica make excuses to leave, heard awkward goodbyes being given out and the front door closing once or twice. His head was swimming a little from the whiskey and he could hear Freddie and Mary talking just above a whisper in the living room. No part of him wanted to listen in. Instead he tugged his trousers and shirt off, let them pile somewhere in the corner of his room and flopped onto his bed.

He listened to Freddie and Mary bicker and squabble in the living room, slowly not caring about the volume of their voices until Freddie shouted about calling her a cab. Roger wanted to believe Freddie was in there telling her off, defending him, sticking up for him, choosing him over her. But he knew that was too much to hope for, too much to want from Freddie. She was probably telling him off for not defending her if he was honest with himself. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep until he heard her slam the front door.

Once she had, Roger tried closing his eyes. The night was humiliating, hurtful, eye opening even. And he was in no mood to process it. He wanted to fall asleep before he could dwell on the words she’d said, or how he’d just sat there and taken it, blubbering over the few noises he could make while Freddie just watched. He didn’t want any of those thought seeping in while he dozed off.

~~~

“Rog,” came Freddie’s voice through his door, stirring Roger out of the edge of sleep he’d been dancing on. A little knock followed. Roger looked up, desperately searching for his alarm clock to orient him. It told him an hour had passed since Mary left. Freddie knocked again. Most of Roger wanted to tell him to fuck off, to go away, to never speak to him again. But some of him still wanted to talk to him, wanted to hear his explanation if he had one, no matter how pathetic it was, no matter if it was an hour late.

“What?” replied Roger, cold and sharp.

“Can I come in?” said Freddie, his voice timid.

“Do whatever you want,” spat Roger.

Freddie’s small frame appeared in dark blues shadows and light blue highlights in Roger’s moonlit door frame. He closed the door with a shallow huff and took a step or two into Roger’s cramped room. He stood at Roger’s bedside, looking down at him with big, sad eyes as he shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with his nails.

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Freddie, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “Roger, I’m so sorry.”

“You are?” Roger wasn’t ready to believe him. Sure he was sorry but maybe he was sorry he’d invited Mary, maybe he was sorry Roger’d been so embarrassed, maybe he was sorry the night was cut short. Roger just didn’t believe he was sorry for staying silent, for letting Mary hurt him without any repercussions. “What for?”

“For everything,” said Freddie. Roger noticed a strange trembling in his hands as he ran his thumb over his palm nervously.

“Everything?” Roger sat up.

Freddie shifted his weight between feet faster, he was practically trembling. “Oh Roger I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“Fred.” Roger reached for and held his wrist in his hand, hoping to offer him some kind of comfort. “You don’t need to be so nervous.”

He swung his legs over the side of his bed, thinking he might stand with him, even guide him out of the room and send him back to bed, but Freddie sat in the open spot next to him in an instant. With Freddie’s leg pressed to his own he was suddenly very aware of his state of undress, suddenly feeling quite exposed in just his pants, his shirt and trousers long gone.

“Roger,” muttered Freddie in a pleading, helpless way, though his voice seemed more steady.

“What?” said Roger, any anger he felt slowly turning to concern.

“I love you,” said Freddie, his big watery eyes looking over to meet Roger’s.

“I know,” said Roger, heart sinking. “Freddie I really can’t hear another speech about how you love me but you can’t be with me. It hurts. Tonight hurt, Freddie. If you’re going to sit here and tell me why things have to be this way, frankly, I don’t want to hear it.”

Roger froze after he spoke, holding his breath, holding eye contact with Freddie, trying to add weight to words. He wanted Freddie to know he meant it, to know he had his limits and Freddie had long ago reached them, but so much of him was scared to push Freddie any further away that the long Freddie waited to respond the more Roger was willing to take it all back.

“You won’t,” said Freddie, pressing a hand to Roger’s bare chest, his touch electric but his hands still trembling. “I’m an idiot, Roger, I really am.”

“Oh?” replied Roger. He hadn’t been so close to Freddie in months much less had his hands on him. His fingertips trailed down his chest, rubbing small comforting strokes into his hip, just under his rips, moving up to his collarbone every once in a while. Roger could tell Freddie wanted to have confidence behind his caresses, but his shaking breath and jittery hands gave him away in the most endearing way. Roger knew he was blushing, and he knew, even in the moonlight, Freddie could tell, but there was no point trying to hide it.

“Oh,” repeated Freddie with shaky sigh. “Time and time again I pushed you away. And time and time again you stayed with me and helped me how I needed it even when it hurt you. You care in a way no one has before. Certainly not Mary.” Freddie’s hand rested against the waistband on Roger’s pants. “I’m sorry I let her say those things tonight, and say all her other horrible things any other night. I thought she was what I needed. I’ve never been more wrong.”

“No you haven’t,” breathed Roger, his muscles all tensing wondering where Freddie was going with this, although the hand teasing the elastic of his waistband was a clue.

“I love you, I want you, and I’m ready to have you if you’ll take me,” said Freddie. Roger’s heart leaped in his throat in a school boyish way. He knew the effect of Freddie’s words would be clear on his face but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Freddie smirked at the way Roger’s eyelids fluttered and in one fell swoop dipped his hand into Roger’s pants and wrapped his long lithe fingers around his cock.

“God,” sighed Roger. Freddie let out an uneven, anxious laugh as he stroked Roger, just enough to elicit a sound. Once he’d accomplished that he slowly sank to his knees and shuffled between Roger’s legs. “Freddie, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” said Freddie, his eyes wide, never leaving Roger’s. “I want to show you what you mean to me.”

Roger noticed Freddie’s hands were still shaking as he helped Roger shimmy his pants down. He took Roger’s cock in hand, his eyes full of concentration, and Roger noticed his breathing hitch with anxiety.

“You don’t have to—” Roger was cut off by Freddie’s tongue licking a wet stripe up his cock.

“I want to,” said Freddie punctuating the thought with a tentative suck to the head of Roger’s cock. Just with that swirl of the tongue, Roger was reminded that Freddie had practice, that he was very good at this, that Roger’s pathetic attempt at sucking cock all those months back would pale in comparison to the performance Freddie could put on.

His tongue teased him with a confidence that Roger could feel growing as Freddie’s touches became more even and firm. Roger shuddered, a little overwhelmed, when Freddie took all of him into his mouth. The sight, the faint feeling of Freddie’s perfect noise pressed to his skin could’ve been enough to get him off right then. He whined, a noise he’d never heard from himself, and raked his hands through Freddie’s hair.

Freddie’s hands massaged Roger’s bare thighs, his touch gentle and loving in a way Roger’d never felt. His hands moved up to his hips, pulling him closer almost, his fingers occasionally moving to feel each notch in Roger’s spine, before moving back to his legs. Encompassing him fully in every way he could. Roger could feel a familiar pang of impending tears, of love, with every lingering touch and caress Freddie gave him.

“I’m close,” whispered Roger with a loving hand still in Freddie’s hair. Freddie responded by bobbing his head a bit faster, his tongue working so expertly that speed wasn’t so necessary. And though he knew how he felt about Freddie, knew how searing and intense his love was, so overpowering that a blowjob felt holy, it was something else entirely to feel it reciprocated. “God, Fred.”

Freddie didn’t flinch when he came, swallowing instantly and making Roger tremble, his grip in Freddie’s hair growing erratic as he tightened and loosened his fingers haphazardly. Freddie’s still hands on his thighs grounded him, and when the oversensitivity began, Freddie pulled off him with an obscene pop that, in the moment, felt so pure.

Roger could only pant as he stared into Freddie’s teary eyes. Those emotions he pretended not to have for so long rushed to the forefront, the adoration, the affection, the devotion, the pure, overwhelming love.

“God,” said Roger, his voice carrying a distinctive shake as his eyes welled, “I love you.”

Freddie smiled up at him, a few stray tears streaked his cheeks. Freddie steadied himself on Roger’s knees and pulled himself up enough to meet Roger’s lips with his own, a feeling Roger had missed and dreamt about for so long. He didn’t care that he could taste himself on Freddie’s tongue. He reached up for him, for any grip on his clothes he could get, pulling him closer until he could pull him down on the bed with him.

It was an awkward angle on Roger’s narrow bed, an awkward angle for Freddie to fall, an awkward angle for Roger to get pinned under him. But he didn’t care, he wrapped every limb around him as tight as he could and worked to find every remnant of himself in Freddie’s accepting mouth.

Roger felt Freddie’s erection, straining in his trousers, press against his thigh. Freddie grinned against Roger’s lips as he nestled into Roger’s hold, into Roger’s blankets.

“Can I sleep here?” whispered Freddie. His hand reached to brush back the hair in Roger’s fair.

“No,” said Roger surprising himself just as much as Freddie.

“What?” said Freddie, his voice laced with hurt.

“I’m sorry,” said Roger, “but not until you’re through with Mary—”

“I am through with her,” said Freddie.

“You broke up?” said Roger. Freddie’s silence answered him. “Freddie, I just can’t…do this again. I don’t want to have her hanging over me anymore. Please, that’s all I need from you, then I’m all yours, I just want you to be all mine too.”

Freddie’s eyes welled up again, Roger’s did the same, he stopped them short of crying by pressing another kiss to Freddie’s lips. It felt like such a defeat, Roger knew, to have gone out so far on a limb and have been told it wasn’t right. He’d experience that more than he liked to remember.

“Freddie,” mumbled Roger against his lips, “I love you. I want to be with you. I’m saying yes.”

“I know,” replied Freddie, pulling away just enough to look into Roger’s eyes.

Despite his warning, Roger fell asleep with Freddie in his arms. The warmth from Freddie was better than any blanket, he knew he wouldn’t mind any sore muscles he had in the morning.

~~~

Freddie’s hope to break it off with Mary the very next morning were dashed when she refused to see him, still sore and expecting a pleading apology from Freddie after their loud row the night before. Roger suggested pretending to be apologetic, pretending to be deeply sorry for how the night had unfolded, how the fight had unfolded, but Freddie was insistent on doing it ‘right’.

Three days later, Roger sat behind the drum kit in the studio while Freddie fiddled with the mic cords and Brian and John tried switching off instruments for a new sound. Roger felt the new sound was less experimental and dreamy and more ‘bad’ but without any real competitive guitar playing to bring to the table he stayed quiet. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument about their music anyway.

The long, dragging few days since Freddie came to him had left Roger so unsure. Unsure if Freddie’d really do it, unsure if he’d really still want him after he did, unsure if he’d begin to back track, if Mary would convince him they were perfect for each other. He was on edge, anxious, moody, so he kept to himself while John and Brian tried strumming each other’s instruments.

“Alright boys, I’m off,” said Freddie at the one am mark.

“So early?” said Brian.

“Another job interview tomorrow?” offered John.

“No,” Freddie tugged his jacket on, “Mary wants to see me.”

“At this hour?” began Brian.

“She does?” said Roger louder than he should’ve but he didn’t care. “You mean it?”

“I mean it,” said Freddie with a wide smile. “Sorry but you’ll need to get a ride back, Rog.”

“That’s fine,” said Roger quickly.

“Is she done being mad?” said John with a snigger.

“She was still mad?” said Brian before shaking his head. Though Brian didn’t say anything, his closed off body language more than conveyed how frustrated, disappointed he was to think Freddie was running back to Mary.

Freddie paid it no mind, too focused on his actual goal of keeping his nerve when he broke it off with her. He blew them all kisses as he hurried out the door, Roger’s car keys swinging around one finger.

Once he was decidedly out of the studio’s backdoor, John and Brian both turned to Roger, sympathy clear in their eyes, pity even.

“Stop looking at me like that,” said Roger.

“You don’t have to take this, Rog,” said Brian.

“I don’t want to talk about it, can we focus on the music,” said Roger, not caring to explain it to them, secretly wondering if maybe he uttered his hopeful thinking out loud Freddie may not go through with it.

“Sure,” said John after a beat of silence, “lets just play.”

~~~

Roger got a ride from John, who was driving Brian. Which meant the entire journey home he was being given advice and support he didn’t know if he needed. Whatever Freddie was saying to Mary could go either way but he trusted him on some level to break it off with her no matter what she said to him, no matter if she called him a freak, a degenerate, a pervert, he trusted that Freddie could hold himself together long enough to convince her he wouldn’t go back to her.

If nothing else, John and Brian turning in their seats every few minutes while they reminded him they were there for him was comforting. It was a distraction even, from his own meandering thoughts of what Mary might say to him, what he might say to her, what she might try and do.

“Oh shit,” said John as he turned onto Roger’s street.

“What?” said Roger, paying more attention to what little he could see in the streetlights. His eyes focused on Mary’s car, a regrettably nice car. She stood by it, Freddie at her side, wrapped in a tight hug.

“Well, at least she’s not staying over,” said Brian.

“This is so fucked up,” groaned John as he inched down the street. Roger could barely hear him, he was too focused on trying to make out how lingering, how loving Freddie’s touch was with her. His faulty eyesight wouldn’t let him make out any details besides their connected bodies until finally they pulled away from each other and she sank into her car. “This is fucked, this is _fucked_.”

“It’s fine,” said Roger.

“It’s not,” said John, a note of sadness in his words. He pulled over to let Roger out just as Mary’s car was disappearing down the street. Roger’s heart pounded as he stepped out onto the pavement.

“Rog?” said Freddie, eyeing him from the streetlamp Mary had been parked under. “John? Brian?”

“They were dropping me off,” said Roger. Freddie walked towards the three of them. Before he could give them any goodnights, John had peeled off the curb and sped down the road. “Sorry, he’s a little touchy.”

“Did you not tell them?” said Freddie.

“I didn’t want to jinx it,” said Roger.

“Let’s go inside, I’m freezing,” said Freddie. Roger held his breath as he followed Freddie up the narrow steps to their flat.

“How’d it go?” said Roger as soon as their door was closed, as soon as they had a semblance of privacy. Freddie said nothing, but turned to Roger with teary eyes and wrapped both arms around him like he might die if he’d waited a second longer. Roger almost didn’t want the answer, almost didn’t want the moment to end fearing he was about to hear more bad news. “Fred, what happened?”

Freddie pulled back, his smile enormous, his eyes red and swollen from a long night with Mary. “It didn’t go down well but it’s done. I did it.” There was a hint of giddiness in the way Freddie spoke, equal parts excited for himself as he was to be with Roger.

“No conditions, no strings,” said Roger, his arms falling away from Freddie.

“No strings, no conditions, no agreements, no issues,” said Freddie.

Roger wasted no time then. He took Freddie’s face in both hands and kissed him with all the pent up anxiety from the night. Freddie hooked his arms around Roger’s neck, both savouring the feeling, the freedom of it.

He could feel Freddie, touch him however he might want and there was no looming threat of Mary waiting to make those touches impure and dirty in Freddie’s mind. And when he led him to his bedroom there was no worry that Freddie might change his mind, might recommit to Mary while in his arms. No, he laid back and accepted Roger in a way he hadn’t done before. His hands exploring him, enjoying him in a totally new light. And Roger found himself feeling something foreign and wonderful in the pit of his stomach when he entered Freddie this time around.

He couldn’t articulate it even if he tried, couldn’t describe to Freddie how much better this felt than their last time together, how much he wanted the moment to last for hours, even days. How he always wanted to be this close to him, always wanted to feel this good with him, always wanted Freddie to look at him with pleading, love-stricken eyes the way he did each time Roger moved in him.

Freddie came first, crying as Roger stroked him through it. Roger followed close behind. Once he’d come down off the high, once each little twitch of their bodies made Roger shiver with oversensitivity, he found no desire to move. No desire to clean up, no desire to find a blanket to huddle under, no desire to do anything but lay with his weight awkwardly distributed over Freddie and catch his breath while Freddie’s finger tips trailed up and down his back.

“I love you,” said Freddie, pushing back the sweaty strands of hair from Roger’s forehead, and pressing stray kisses to whatever part of his face he could reach.

Roger pressed a few lazy kisses to his lips, to his chin and one to his collarbone as he nestled against his chest, listening to his heart beat, feeling the warmth from his skin envelop him.

“I love you too,” replied Roger, both knowing those words couldn’t only express a fraction of what they felt.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the short little epilogue! I hope you guys like it! I'm definitely going to do another froger fic I love these two so much! I'm thinking about doing a fic with a trans character? Let me know if anyone would want that or not? And if anyone has any requests let me know that too! Hope you're enjoying my current fic Not Quiet Young!! Thank you for all the lovely comments this fic has been so fun!! <3

**1974 - Epilogue**

“Do we need this?” said Roger, showing Freddie a box of pasta. Freddie contemplated it for a moment before shaking his head. “Do we need this?” said Roger, showing Freddie a box of rice. Freddie inspected it and nodded. Roger threw it in the trolley. “Do we need this—”

“Darling, why don’t I just read you the list—”

“No!” insisted Roger. “I’m going to make this recipe on my own!”

“But deary—”

“No buts!” said Roger firmly. “It doesn’t mean anything if I can’t do it myself.”

“It still means everything.” Freddie tugged the cart, forcing Roger to stop walking for a moment. “We can’t go through the whole store guessing the ingredients. Mum gave me the recipe, it’s no use pretending we don’t have it—”

“She gave it _to me_ and I will do with it what I so choose.” said Roger as he wheeled them to the spices. “I _know_ we need coriander,” he said as he plucked it from the shelf, “right?”

Freddie smirked and sighed, “no.”

“I knew that!”

“Rog,” laughed Freddie, “the real impressive part is making it, not guessing the ingredients correctly after frantically studying the recipe on the walk over.”

“But how impressive would it be if I knew all the ingredients?” said Roger with a wink. He held up a little jar of paprika. “Do we need this?”

Freddie consulted the recipe his mum had given him earlier. “Yes, but the smoked kind not just regular.”

“I have to smoke it?”

“No, love, you can buy it smoked,” said Freddie with a giggle.

“Sh,” warned Roger, blushing a bit at Freddie’s pet name. “What if someone hears you?”

“I hope they do. I’m tired of women chatting you up, it’s terribly rude,” said Freddie.

“I’ll get on the speakers and let the shoppers know I’m taken,” said Roger as he reached up for the smoked paprika.

“That’s all I ask.”

Freddie chatted with the cashier while Roger bagged up their food. He placed every item in their bags _just so_ , as if a bumpy walk home might irreparably damage the finished product. The recipe was given to Roger after he’d called up Jer begging for it. He wanted to make Freddie his childhood favourite for their second anniversary. Though, the lie he told Jer was that they were celebrating the impending release of their second album. He wasn’t sure if she’d bought the lie or if she just didn’t want to press them on something Freddie wasn’t ready to deal with yet. Either way she wished them all the love in the world when Roger picked the recipe up.

Roger had never cooked anything except the occasional pasta, and the even more occasional burnt food, but he was determined to get this right.

“You know, I won’t leave you if this turns out shit,” said Freddie on their walk home.

“You should,” said Roger. “You can make my childhood favourite, I should be able to make yours.”

“Your childhood favourite is steak, Rog. And these days you like it rare,” laughed Freddie. “I could do that for you in my sleep.”

“Well,” said Roger, “soon I’ll cook this for you in my sleep.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Freddie, lazily kissing the air near Roger’s face. Even that amount of closeness had the bags in their hands clanging together.

“Watch it!” said Roger. “What if something breaks!”

“You think the chicken’s going to break? You think the rice is going to break?”

“The _spices_ ,” snapped Roger.

“You’re a pain,” said Freddie with an eyeroll.

~~~

Freddie told him, around noon, that he had a stop to make before he came home to dinner. Roger knew that meant his gift and didn’t pry when Freddie left. No sooner had the door closed behind Freddie than Roger had Freddie’s decorative apron tied around his waist. He didn’t know the recipe, he didn’t know _any_ recipe, so to give himself the best chance of succeeding, he started work as soon as he could.

Roger was a sweaty mess when dinner was finally done. He’d consulted the recipe between each breath but he was fairly sure it paid off. He had the flat to himself, free to swear and curse and plead with god for a little assistance with their oven which he felt was one of the most important ingredients. He rinsed off the sauce he’d smeared across his forehead and opened a window too to cool the flat down after having run the stove for longer that day than the flat had seen in their collective two years of living there.

With the fresh air blowing in, Roger set about making up their little dining table. It was small, but their old flat couldn’t fit a table at all so Roger didn’t mind. He used the good china, which meant no chipped plates. And he used the good table cloth which meant the decorative afghan Freddie’s mother gave him that was normally draped over the back of their sofa. Roger positioned the candles on the table. It took a moment for them to balance in the candlesticks seeing as they were far too small, and cheap enough that the wax was starting to crumble. But he knew Freddie wouldn’t notice, and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t mind. It was as classy as their budget could afford.

He patted his pockets for his lighter, hoping that once he lit the candles they would miraculously stand up a little straighter. He found his lighter in the pocket of his jacket hanging by the door and just before he lit them he checked his watch to see if Freddie was even close to being back. His watch read three.

“Fuck,” muttered Roger. In his zeal to master dinner, he’d made it about three hours too early. He stared at the dining table, all beautifully made up, and wondered if he should start it all over. Put it in the oven to warm. Maybe try his hand at making a dessert to go with. His mind flashed back to the one occasion he’d tried to make Freddie a birthday cake and made him a hard loaf of unleavened bread instead.

“I’m home!” called Freddie from the door. Roger panicked and quickly decided they would be having a three o’clock dinner and lit the candles before rushing over to meet him. Once Freddie had eyes on him, he grinned ear to ear. “Smells fantastic in here, Rog, how’s it coming?”

“It’s done,” said Roger with a laugh, “I got ahead of myself while you were gone.”

“Oh is it?” said Freddie, a laugh lacing his words, almost waiting to hear if he was joking. He set the little gift bag down on the endtable by the couch before shedding his jacket. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly. I just set the table,” said Roger. His eyes drifted down by Freddie’s feet where he’d set the giftbag. “So…’s that mine?”

“I think it can wait until after dinner,” said Freddie with a grin. He stepped out of his boots and hurried to Roger to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Or after lunch.”

“It’s edible, that’s the important part,” said Roger. “Now come through, I’ve done it all up fancy, as if we’re proper adults and everything.”

“Oh have you,” teased Freddie. Roger led him through to their ‘dining room’. Their table barely fit three chairs around it. Roger, seeing as it was a special occasion, put the dining chair with their laundry and bills piled on it haphazardly in the bathroom before Freddie arrived.

“Have a seat, I’ll get the food,” said Roger.

“I feel like a high-end escort,” said Freddie with a wide grin as he scooted his chair in. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should’ve,” said Roger. He hurried to the kitchen and doled out the chicken and rice onto Freddie’s plate before dousing it with sauce just as Jer said in her recipe. He did the same on his plate mostly because he wasn’t sure how else to serve it. The most exotic food he’d ever had was dumplings so he played it safe and copied Freddie. He set both plates down and nearly singed his hair in the candlelight in the process. “Bon appetit!”

“You made this?” said Freddie, disbelief painted on his face.

“With my own three hands,” said Roger with a grin.

“Roger it’s—”

“Save your compliments until you’ve tried it, I don’t know how well it actually turned out,” said Roger. “Your mother’s recipe kept saying ‘some of this’, ‘a dash of that’. I had no reference so if it’s awful it’s not my fault.”

Freddie took an enormous bite. Roger considered that very brave given this was his first time cooking chicken. “It’s good! It’s not just good it’s great, Roger.”

“Really?” Roger had a bite waiting on his own fork that he was too nervous to take until Freddie’d tried it. “I thought I might’ve overdone the chicken—and when she said to add, oh what was it, started with a ’T’, but I put far more than I meant to and I was worried—”

Freddie reached across the table and squeezed Roger’s hand. “It’s delicious. I love it. Amazing how far you’ve come since you made us that bread sauce soup for Christmas.”

Roger grinned and took a bite of it himself. Spicier than he was used to. Not just in heat, the whole thing had more flavour than he’d ever had the luxury of spending money on. He didn’t know if it was his skill that made the food taste good or his expense and splurging on the spices earlier that day but he didn’t care. It was good food that he’d made, truly the eighth wonder of the world. Freddie pointed that out and began comparing their dinner to a few of his failures in the past. The knot of dreadfully overcooked spaghetti being a main feature, the ‘soup’ that Roger concocted from broth and rum getting thrown in as well. Roger decided to remind him of the time he’d made them eggs and triumphantly sprinkled spoiled cheese over top. It was worth the ribbing to hear Freddie laugh until he was wheezing. Roger was more surprised, with each bite, that he hadn’t burned down the flat trying to make this, or at very least hadn’t served Freddie raw chicken and a bad mix of seasonings.

“You’re sweating,” said Freddie, laughing with a hand over his mouth. “Too spicy?”

“A bit,” said Roger with a grin as he chewed his last bite. “But I’ll get used to it.”

“You planning on cooking this again?” said Freddie with a raised eyebrow.

Roger wiped his forehead and shrugged. “I’m assuming since it was your childhood favourite you’ll want our children to have it, and god knows you won’t cook it yourself.” Roger nearly choked when he realised what he’d said. Sure he could have longing daydreams about growing old with Freddie but he couldn’t casually mentioned over dinner that he’d imagined it getting that far.

“Children?” said Freddie.

“I—Far—way off, way—if—hypothetical,” began Roger, the spice catching up with him as he tried to back pedal. “Very—one day—not now but—maybe if—“

“How smooth,” said Freddie with a grin. “But I’d like that.”

“You…would?”

“I would,” said Freddie, flatly. “We’ve been together for two years, you think I haven’t considered that?”

“I guess—Don’t know, I figured it was all me,” said Roger with a shy grin.

“Too bad it’s impossible,” said Freddie with a sadness he tried to cover with a grin.

“Don’t get down, not on our anniversary,” pleaded Roger.

Freddie shook his head. “I’m not down, I’m fine, I promise.”

A silence lingered between them as Roger trie to find a way to get Freddie’s mood back up. His big brown eyes looked so sad in that moment, that wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. His fake smile even began to fade.

“Maybe,” Roger leaned across the table and lowered his voice, “we’re just not trying hard enough?”

Freddie eyed him curiously for a moment but Roger could tell he’d caught on when his cheeks flushed pink. Roger grinned as the two of them rushed out of their chairs to get to each other. Meeting at the edge of the table in a rough kiss, pawing at each other helplessly and doing their best not to knock anything over. The bedroom was close but the couch was closer. Roger led them to it. He nudged Freddie back into the cushions and worked quickly to get as many buttons undone as possible. Freddie worked towards the same goal and threw his shirt somewhere behind Roger while Roger was tugging his trousers and pants off. Roger knelt between Freddie’s thighs, one hand massaging the taught muscle Freddie had, the other undoing his belt.

He didn’t bother shimmying out of his trouser and pants, all he cared about was getting his cock free. Once he had that, Freddie wrapped his legs around his hips and pulled him in. He pulled him into a deep kiss, searching every inch of his mouth with his tongue, and bucked up against Roger Roger rolled his hips against Freddie and reached behind his head for the lube sitting on their end-table, a remnant of their morning spent in a similar position.

In their years together, Roger had gotten quick with how he fingered Freddie. Had learned how to hit every spot in him, how to get the exact moans he wanted from him. Freddie panted in his ear, as impatient as always.

“Just do it, I can’t wait any longer,” said Freddie with a shake in his breathing as Roger curled his fingers just how he liked it.

“You’re lucky I’m too horny to tease you tonight,” groaned Roger as he coated his cock in lube. He slid into Freddie while Freddie’s legs shook around him. He’d never get used to the feeling of Roger, and Roger wouldn’t get used to the feeling of him. It took him by surprise, each time, how tight, how warm, how perfect he felt with every inch of him begging for more.

He clawed up Roger’s back, whined in his ear just how he knew Roger liked to hear him, and gripped Roger’s hips tight with his thighs, begging him to go deeper, maybe a little faster. Roger gave him everything he could, desperate to be closer to him, even if it was just by the inch.

“I’m close,” hummed Freddie, his hand palming his cock rough. Roger kissed him with all he had and fucked into him even harder. Freddie moaned, growled almost, and dug his nails deep into Roger’s back as he came across his stomach.

Roger gave Freddie no warning when he came, it snuck up on him too. He moaned, staccato and low pitched, and bit into Freddie’s shoulder as he rolled his hips once or twice more, getting every last pleasurable wave out of himself before the oversensitivity set in.

Roger, in a bit of a daze, panted against Freddie’s chest. He’d only barely caught his breath when he felt Freddie’s hand carding through his hair. “God, I do love you.”

“I love you too,” breathed Roger.

Roger could’ve fallen asleep like that, with Freddie’s heartbeat steady against his ear, his hand tugging gently at his hair, his legs clinging to him loosely.

“I love you so much, I don’t ever want to love anyone else,” said Freddie.

“Mm,” said Roger, nuzzling against him and letting his eyes slip closed.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” whispered Freddie with a deep sigh. “I think it’s time for your gift.”

“My gift,” repeated Roger, suddenly a bit more awake. He sat up as Freddie reached for the gift bag on the end-table behind his head. Roger reached up to grab it, but Freddie held it away just in time. Freddie scolded him and forced him to at least put his cock away before handing it over, something about ‘having dignity’. Roger groaned but did as he was asked and waited very patiently while Freddie tugged his pants back on sat crosslegged on the couch. “Now that we’re decent can I have it?”

Freddie, with a grin, handed the bag over to Roger who instantly began tearing it apart at the seams. He got through the decorative paper until he found a velvet drawstring pouch. He eyed it nervously, wondering what hellish thing of decadence Freddie had spent a fortune on only for Roger to hate it. He prayed to every god he could think of that this wasn’t earrings and he wasn’t about to be pinned to the couch while Freddie shoved a needle through his ear.

He opened the pouch and two silver bands landed in his hand. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ what?” said Freddie. “Do you like them?”

“I do, I just…is this in fashion now?” said Roger with a cocked head as he looked for any detail on the plain bands.

“Not so much, I just thought…Well, we can’t get married, not properly, but I thought…” Freddie looked at him with an amount of uncertainty Roger hadn’t seen in his eyes in ages. And it made his heart leap.

“Fuck—are you’re proposing.” Roger stared at Freddie with wide eyes, holding his breath, wondering if he was right.

“In a way,” said Freddie with a grin, not caring to cover his teeth. “I love you and…if it were legal, we would’ve done it last year I’m sure so…If you don’t like the ring, we can get other ones, I don’t mind.”

“I—Freddie—I,” stammered Roger. He felt like he needed bigger words, better words, more poetic words but he could barely get out Freddie’s name. “Yes—Yes, of course yes—I don’t…all I did was cook you dinner,” said Roger with a laugh.

“Just as good, darling.” Freddie pressed a light kiss to Roger’s temple. “Go on, put it on!”

Roger gave one of the silver bands back to Freddie and held out his hand. There was an excited shake effecting his fingers but he didn’t care if Freddie noticed. “You’re supposed to put it on me.”

Freddie smiled wide as he slipped the ring on Roger, and as Roger slipped his ring on him. “I know it’s not a proper marriage—”

“Fuck proper, who cares. I’m your husband.”

Any shyness, any nerves, any apprehension Freddie may have had left him as he lurched forward to hold Roger’s face and kiss him with all the want and need that he always had for him. Roger reached up to tug his hair, just the way he liked.

“Now that we’re married,” said Roger, pulling away with a grin, “maybe we should give making a baby one more try don’t you think?”

“Fuck—yes,” said Freddie in high, quiet voice. Roger kissed him full force and and laid him back down, pressed him back into the couch as Roger’s tongue moved against his. Expertly, with a level of familiarity that had Freddie keening off the sofa, longing for a bit more from Roger.

And he would’ve got it had their front door not flown open.

“Oh—God,” said John in their doorway. “Get a room.”

“What—This is our room!” huffed Freddie.

“Now’s not a good time—“ began Roger, his hips still pressing down on Freddie as if they had any chance of continuing.

“Too bad!” said John.

“We’re celebrating!” Brian held up a bottle of champagne. Roger sat up and Freddie hurried to do the same, both trying to behave as if they hadn’t been interrupted, as if they didn’t have a sex drive at all.

“They knew?” asked Roger looking over at Freddie’s dazed eyes. Freddie shook his head.

Brian moved around the couch and set his keys down before he worked open the foil on the champagne bottle. “Knew what?”

John let himself in the kitchen and rummaged around for a few seconds before returning with four glasses. Brian popped the cork carefully, letting nothing spill over the way Roger would always do.

“What—what’re we celebrating?” Freddie, despite already having his pants back on, felt the need to cover himself with a blanket. The intrusion far more embarrassing than it was annoying.

“Oh you didn’t hear?” said John knowing damn well they hadn’t heard. “We,” he held up his glass triumphantly, “are going on tour.”

“Okay,” said Roger as he took a glass of champagne from him. “This really couldn’t wait?”

“In America,” added Brian.

It was a blur from there. A long pause filled with blank looks before the excitement kicked in. All four jumping in each other’s arms, spilling champagne every which way as they all dreamed about how thrilling an American tour would be. Roger’d never been, as far as he knew none of the others had either. It was injecting new life into a career that had mostly left them destitute, a new hope for their futures and an exciting trip with his three closest friends, with his husband.

“It’ll be like a honeymoon,” said Freddie, with a big grin just before kissing Roger.

“A what?” said John, a laugh lingering on his face as he cocked his head.

“Look, look,” said Roger, extending a hand out to John. Brian leaned forward to inspect it as well. “My gift for our anniversary.”

“So…” Brian’s words trailed off as he twirled the ring around Roger’s finger

“So is this an engagement or are we skipping ahead to marriage?” said John, filling in the blanks Brian had left.

“Skipping!” said Freddie cheerily. “Couldn’t stand it one more second!”

“Congratulations,” said Brian and John in a staggered unison. Both reaching out to hug Roger or Freddie and the four of them getting lost in the tangle of arms in the process.

“We need to celebrate!” said John.

“We are celebrating!” laughed Roger, champagne still in his hand.

“No we need more, we need…” John’s thought trailed off.

“Scrabble!” screamed Brian.

“Yes!”

Roger couldn’t say he was thrilled to have his night with Freddie interrupted by an impromptu game of tipsy scrabble. And he couldn’t say when he envisioned the night he got married it involved a whole lot of dictionary referencing and squabbles over literacy. But he didn’t mind it. He’d have plenty of wild nights ahead but the quiet nights in with the three people he’d be seeing the most of for the foreseeable future was worth far more.

With each turn, with each pissed off remark after someone else got more points, Roger couldn’t help think how lucky he was to be in Freddie’s life, to be loved by him, to be able to love him. They were broke, destitute almost and that didn’t show signs of letting up. But he found, as long as he had Freddie, he didn’t give a shit if they ever got rich, if they ever got a flat bigger than a shoebox, if they ever had a month of not scraping in to pay their bills. Freddie was a sort of home he’d never lose.

And when Brian and John finally threw in the towel and handed the Scrabble victory to Freddie, Roger was quick to haul him off to bed, to envelop and attend to every inch of him in every way he knew how. And when he moved in him it was slow and deep, movements that he knew sent shivers through Freddie each time. He clawed at him, begged him for more and came with a few jerky kicks of his legs and a loud moan stifled only by Roger’s tongue as he came down. Roger was close behind him, clinging to the needy whines Freddie let out when Roger fucked his overstimulated body.

No part of him wanted to get up, rinse off and get back in bed. He’d wash the sheets tomorrow, he’d wash the mess on his and Freddie’s stomachs off tomorrow, for right then he rolled off of Freddie and pressed tired, lazy kisses to his jaw, to his shoulder, as his hand ran across his chest.

“I love you, Freddie,” said Roger, quiet, barely a whisper as he pulled the covers up across their shoulders.

Freddie turned to smile at him with a big, lopsided grin. “You make me so happy,” said Freddie with a sigh. “I couldn’t love you any more if I tried.”

Roger leaned over him to press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, too tired for anything else. Freddie leaned into it, leaned into him, and nestled in closer. Their legs entwined, their arms draped across each other as they drifted off.


End file.
